


Annika: Part Two

by CRebel



Series: Annika Northman [2]
Category: True Blood
Genre: Angst, Coming of Age, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Other, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 102,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CRebel/pseuds/CRebel
Summary: "Eric's voice echoes through my mind, like it does a lot: 'I will tell you that which you need to know. I will protect you from that which you do not. And you must trust my judgement as to which is which.'I told him I trust him, and of course I do, of course I do . . .". . . . .Annika, Eric's eleven-year-old psychic human, expects things to calm down after the events in Dallas. She is quickly proven wrong, finding herself in the company of many powerful, dangerous creatures, even as her relationships with those she loves are irrevocably changed. Through it all, her abilities continue to develop . . . and that doesn't always seem like a good thing.





	1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I own nothing of  _True Blood._

. . . . .

**Öland, 2002**

The sky  _BANGS_ again,  _BANGBANGbangBANG!,_ loud enough to hurt my ears, hard enough to make the whole porch, the whole house, the whole  _world_  shake, and I squirm in Eric's lap and hold tighter to his neck and press my face against his chest. "It's too close now," I tell him. "We need to go inside."

He pets my head. "No, dear," he says into my ear in his nicest voice. "We still have time." He pushes my head around with one finger so I have to look out at the world again, at the long field in front of the house with its waving grass, at the black, twisting sky hiding all its stars. "Watch. The lightning shows the whole world for a moment. It's the closest thing to day I ever see anymore."

And as soon as he finishes speaking the lightning comes like it's answering him, a giant white tear in the sky that  _does_  light up the whole world, but it's not like day, no, maybe Eric doesn't remember what day looks like anymore, because day is warmer, yellow, alive – not like this at all. My heart is beating too fast, and too hard, I feel it, and it's five heartbeats after that lightning flash when the thunder comes, and I  _hate_ the thunder, I hate it most of all, and this time, it starts with a  _CRACK_ , like a giant dead tree snapping in two. Then the  _BANGBANGBANG,_ and I have to turn into Eric's chest again, and the thunder is so loud that I don't even hear myself whimper, but I feel it in my throat. "Please, Eric . . ."

"Shh . . ." He pets my head some more. "Relax . . . Relax."

" _Please."_

"I appreciate your good manners, Annie, but  _please_ is not a magic word that gets you whatever you want."

I cover my face with my hands. "Why are you doing this to me?"

He breathes long into my hair, and it's colder even than the wind the storm is blowing at us. "Because it is in your best interests, my tiny drama queen."

Light comes through a crack in my fingers, then vanishes. More lightning. I squeeze my eyes tight.

_BANGbangBANGbangBANGBANG!_

"I disagree," I say when the ground stops shaking. I didn't mean to do it, but my legs have gotten underneath me, I'm in a ball.

Eric has both arms around me now. "You are allowed to," he says. "Nonetheless, you are going to have to trust me." His hand is on my wrists then, and he pulls until I'm not covering my eyes anymore. His look extra light in the darkness. "It is important to face your fears, Annika. That is what brave people do. And you want to be brave." He pushes hair out of my eyes. "And honestly, Annie. Do you truly think I would ever put you in any sort of danger?"

I shake my head, because I know he wouldn't, I  _know_ it . . . but the storm is right  _there_ and it's so  _loud . . ._

"No," Eric says. "I never would."

He turns me in his lap, and I do my best not to fight him, and he holds his hands together on my stomach. "So." He rests his head on top of mine. "Look at the storm."


	2. Normal

**Shreveport, 2008**

I'm sipping hot chocolate on the third story of the city mall, leaning against the railing and watching people in the food court when the boy comes up to talk to me.

"Hey," he says from my left, making me jump a little. He props his elbows on the railing, playing with a bundle of white papers spread out like a fan, as I straighten and square my feet, glancing to my right and left for Ginger and seeing only strangers. The boy smiles at me. "You waitin' on somebody?"

I've spent very little time around human children, so I can't guess their ages with much certainty. That said, if pressed, I would say this boy is around thirteen. His hair is dark and shaggy, but held down by a hat that looks more like a sock for his skull, the kind of thing that should, I think, be saved for winter, even though it's barely October and I wouldn't even have taken a jacket tonight if Eric hadn't told me to before I left. The boy's eyes are blue. I like blue eyes.

"Um," I say, "Yeah. An employee of my guardian." I raise my hot chocolate to my mouth, because that seems perfectly – what's the word? –  _nonchalant_. I don't really have a better term for Ginger besides "employee of my guardian," but she is the one I'm here with, the one who dropped me off at the coffee shop right behind me after we got my new sneakers (currently still in their box in a plastic bag by my feet) and before she darted off ("For just a minute, I swear!") to take advantage of a sale at Victoria's Secret. That was nearly a half-hour ago.

"Cool," says the boy, which is an odd response, because nothing I said was particularly interesting. "I'm here with my youth group. It's a, uh, special trip, but . . . some of the girls ran off to shop, and the guys, we're just, sort of, killin' time."

"Cool." I trade my little Styrofoam cup from my right hand to my left, because my right palm has suddenly gotten sweaty – oh, but apparently so has my left. Which I guess makes sense, hands tend to do things together. I rest the cup on the railing, still holding it, so there's less of a chance of my dropping it on someone's head far below.

"Yeah . . ." He shuffles the papers in his hands. "I'm Blake."

I meet his eyes, look away, and meet them again. "Annie."

He grins easily, naturally. He's handsome, I think. If you can be handsome when you're still so young. Something in that smile works something loose in me, and I turn my body towards him a little more. "What, um – What is a youth group?"

His eyes widen a little – this is something that most people know, then. I hold a straight face. "Oh, it's – it's, um, it's part of a church. It's for the kids in the church, you know, like, the teens. We get together and talk about God, just with each other."

"Oh."

"Have you not . . . Do you not go to church?"

"Not really."

"Whoa," he says. "That's . . . I mean, you don't look like someone who doesn't go to church."

"What is someone who doesn't go to church supposed to look like?"

"I don't know, just . . . less normal."

"I look normal?"

"Oh, I didn't mean . . ." And he stutters out a few more things, but I'm not listening that closely – not to the words, at least. I'm staring into his eyes, his nice blue eyes, reaching, and reaching, gently, until I feel the tingle in my chest that tells me he's nervous, feel the twinge in my stomach that tells me he's hungry, and hear a faint few seconds of some angry rapper shouting curses at the world – a song stuck in Blake's head. And probably not one that Jesus would approve of.

". . . better than normal, really," Blake finishes, and my heart kind of flutters, but it's not my heart, really. I mean, it is, but it's just getting its signals mixed with Blake's. Probably . . . Yes, he's definitely nervous. He must not be used to speaking with strangers.

"It's alright," I say. "I'm not offended."

"Well, hey, um . . ." Blake slides one paper out of his bundle and holds it out to me. "You should really try it. Church, I mean. And mine's great, you should – you should come."

I take the paper. It's a single sheet, folded lengthwise, with its cover down. I turn it over.

There, in thick black font, are the words,  **THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE SUN**.

I sigh through my nose.

"My family and me," Blake says, "We weren't good Christians, before we started listenin' to the Reverend Newlin on TV. You've heard of him, right?"

"I have."

"This was the first Reverend Newlin, like – really back in the day. The Reverend . . . everything he said, about the vampires, right after they came out? It was exactly what my dad had been sayin' from the start, so . . . Everything just started to make sense for us. The Church, it saved us."

"Mmm." The inside of the brochure is just black and white, with crooked sentences and a cartoon illustration of a caped vampire with X-shapes for eyes.  _Only through the power and love of Jesus Christ can we be reborn after death,_ reads the top passage,  _and any other way is the WRONG WAY!_

I run a thumb over the cartoon vampire's face and ask, in a voice a little too high-pitched to be mine, "Didn't something big just happen with the Fellowship in Dallas?"

"There was . . . yeah. But it was just a . . . thing."

I blink at him, opening my eyes wide. "What kind of thing?"

"The vampires attacked the Reverend Newlin – the young Reverend Newlin, the one still alive, obviously – they attacked him, and his church. And they – they killed his family, the first Reverend Newlin, and his wife, and their baby."

"All the vampires?"

"I – All the vampires in Dallas."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely."

I snap the brochure closed and frown, bringing my eyebrows together. "Maybe I'm wrong, but . . . didn't the Fellowship attack the vampires, too? Didn't they  _bomb_ them?"

"Well – some members of the Fellowship, yeah." Blake's face is going red. "It wasn't exactly the right way of goin' about things, but – vampires are a menace. Instruments of the devil. They're destroying our country."

"You don't say."

"It's true. Those members in Texas . . . No matter what they did, they had the right idea."

"The right idea . . . Oh, you mean murder?"

"It wasn't  _murder_ , it . . ." His eyes narrow. His head dips. It clicks for him, I see it happen. My lips twitch, even though I'm mostly cold inside. "You . . ."

"You think I look too normal not to go to church." I crumple the brochure and drop it over the railing. Cock my head to the side and put my hand on my hip. "Think I look too normal to live with vampires?"

His mouth is open.

"Because I do. I do live with vampires." I take a drink of my hot chocolate, force a smirk when I'm finished. "And they've always kept me away from  _Jesus_. And people like you make me see why."

Blake steps back, holding the remaining brochures to his gut like I'm about to snatch them. Which, to be fair, I might try to, given the chance. Just to tear them up and throw them out like confetti over the food court. "You need to repent," he says, even as he edges away. "You gotta . . ." He points at me. "I'll pray for you."

"How sweet."

Blake gapes at me for another second, and then, looking five years younger, spins and walks away. Quickly. He doesn't want to hang around the strange girl who loves vampires.

My cup isn't quite empty, but I toss it into the nearest trash can anyway before settling on a bench right outside the coffee shop, my shopping bag beside me. My hands are shaking a little, so I start to wring them, trying to squeeze the trembles out. I was more excited than I should have been when Eric told me that I would be going to the mall with Ginger tonight, and that was mostly because I've spent the days since Dallas, since the bombing –

_– since Godric –_

– going through my usual routine at Fangtasia, and although I'm used to that, used to all that time spent alone within those walls, Dallas and everything that happened there have been difficult to keep out of my mind, Eric's occasional sharp stabs of grief have been difficult to keep out of my mind, and the  _Fellowship_ has been difficult to keep out of my mind, even though Eric told me that they aren't going to be as much of a nuisance in the future, because their leader – Newlin – was all but taken down in Dallas. By Eric.

_And by Godric._

Godric. Godric. I shouldn't want to keep his name, his face, out of my head as much as I do . . . but I do. At least sometimes. Thinking about him makes me sad. And worried. Because Godric had some unsettling warnings for me before he died.

_And after he died._

"No," I murmur to myself. "That was a dream. Just a dream . . ."

"Sorry, sorry!"

I brace my hands against my thighs as Ginger jogs up to me, carrying two black paper bags, one on each arm,  _Victoria's Secret_ written in pink on both. "Sorry!" she says one more time, her illogically high heels cluttering more than clacking on the tile floor as she comes to a stop before me. "I know I said I wouldn't be that long, but turns out, they were having a buy-three, get- _two-_ free sale, not a buy-two, get-one-free sale like I thought, so I had to try on more than I might have otherwise. Couldn't get nothin' to fit right, though. I finally got measured by one of the girls, and turns out I've gone down from a thirty-four to a thirty-two! You believe that? My cups are as big as ever, thank God. Just lost some around the sides . . ."

"That's a fascinating story, Ginger," I mutter. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shoulders lower. Her head tilt.

"You alright?" she asks. "You look down alla sudden. Somethin' happen while I was gone?"

"No. I'm just tired." I loop my arm through my shopping bag. "I'm ready to go."

"What? But – we just been here an hour, you barely looked at anything!"

"Eric sent us here so I would get new shoes." I stand, shaking the plastic bag so the sneakers thud against their cardboard box. "I got new shoes."

"He said you could look for other things while you were here, though! He gave you his  _credit card_ , do you know what you could do with that? Oh, come on!" She grabs my free hand. Hers is too warm for comfort. "I love dressin' other people, and I never get to do it!"

I pull free from her hold. "Ginger, I don't –"

I'm in Fangtasia.

I can't feel my body, can't feel anything. Can only see. See the little round tables with drinks, some of them almost full, even though there are only three people in the bar, all of them standing just feet from the main door. Eric is one of them. I don't know the other two, but they're both vampires, a woman and a man. She is redheaded, lovely, with heavy rings on her fingers and fur on her shoulders. He is . . . normal. Entirely average looking, not ugly or handsome, wearing a plain black suit. But Eric and the woman stand facing him as he speaks.

"Of course one who is proven guilty of such a crime must be made an example of," he says in a voice like a purring cat. "This kind of moral anarchy cannot . . ."

I lose his words – or, they're overtaken, drowned out, by a scream. A woman's scream, a horrible, tortured scream, and – it's familiar, somehow, but I don't –

And then it's gone. And so are Eric and the strangers, and Fangtasia. I'm on the third story of the mall again, with Ginger clamping onto my arm like I might blow away.

"Annie – oh, thank God, thank God, you hear me now? Dear Lord, girl, I thought you was havin' some kinda stroke or somethin', I nearly started screamin' –"

I pull away. Swallow. My head sort of hurts. There's a pounding in my temple.

That scream . . .

"Take me home," I say, pressing my thumbs into my eyes. "I need to talk to Eric."

"But –  _oh._ Did you just . . ." She slips into a ridiculously loud whisper. "Did you just have a  _psychic_ thing?"

"Ginger. Take. Me. Home."

"Okay, okay . . . C'mon."

I let her lead me past shop after shop, dodging shopper after shopper, until we reach an escalator. I go to step on it right as someone else does, and I look up to see Blake, because that's just the twisted way the universe works sometimes. He blushes as he recognizes me, mutters an apology, jumps back, looks down, and as Ginger steps on the escalator, too, I call out to him, "I'll tell them you said hello."

His horrified gaze says I don't have to explain who I mean by  _them._

Blake has nothing to worry about, of course. I wouldn't waste Eric's time by telling him about a stupid boy and his stupid  _youth group_ trying to keep a stupid dead Church alive. As of two minutes ago, I have more important things – maybe far more important things – to tell Eric about. Things I don't understand, things he might. Eric could know who those people were, once I describe them, and he might know why they were there, and who that man was talking about when he said _must be made an example of_. . .

And maybe, somehow, Eric can explain who I heard scream. And why I shouldn't worry about it.

I close my eyes, which soothes the headache, and lose myself in the feeling of sinking as the escalator carries me down.


	3. Moral Anarchy

Fangtasia is a strange place to call home, I know enough to know that. Most homes are private and have windows, for starters. But I've spent the last three years here, so, strange or not, Fangtasia usually feels like home. Safe and comfortable and mine. But it isn't like that tonight.

Tonight, Eric is angry.

 _"HOW_ could you  _FAIL ME?"_

I wince, even though there's a door and a set of stairs between Eric and me. He is in the basement, and I am waiting on the floor above, outside of the basement's heavy door. I've heard him yell like that –  _bellow,_ is a good word for it – only two or three times in my life, and never at me, I'd probably die if he yelled at me that way. It's a horrible sound.

Something has clearly gone very wrong. I could hear it in that yell, but what's more, I can feel it in the air, which is vibrating. It isn't a painful vibration, it almost isn't there, but it  _is,_ and it won't  _stop._ And it's coming from Eric, I can recognize that like I'd recognize his voice. But I haven't seen him in the hours since Ginger returned me to Fangtasia. I waited in his office for a long time before Pam finally came in with a fangbanger – I'm not supposed to use that word, but there really is no better term for it – and threw me out, told me that Eric was busy and probably would be for the rest of the night. At which point I began to kill time in my room, reading, watching a documentary about the Siege of Leningrad on my portable DVD player, skipping through the forty-seven songs on my new iPod within five minutes, trying and failing to work on a French assignment, and then just pacing, as I do, in silence. For a long time – like I said, hours. Up until I heard and felt the club close for the night and for almost twenty minutes after that.

Then I caved and went to search for Eric.

When I found his office empty, I should have simply waited in there. But I'd waited for so long already, so I thought it couldn't hurt to just walk down the hallway, see if he was out on the club floor. But the bar was abandoned, and I felt a tiny pull in my gut, a pull from the basement – from Pam, not Eric, but I decided to follow it anyway. Which is how I ended up outside this door, listening to his muffled voice.

Well, it  _was_  muffled, anyway. Until he yelled.

All I know for sure is that he's not yelling at Pam. She wouldn't just take it. There might be someone else down there, but other people aren't down there very often, so Eric is probably on the phone. With someone I would not trade places with for all the treasure in the world.

Wait – there. Pam's voice. I stop walking and stare at the door, holding my breath. I can't make out what she's saying, she isn't speaking loud enough. I could press my ear against the door, but no. That would be eavesdropping. This . . . isn't quite that. Somehow.

Eric answers her. Loudly. Not with the shout he was using before, but not with a calm, controlled tone, either.

Pam answers evenly.

No answer . . . no, there. Just a tiny something. Eric, in a low voice.

Pam replies.

A pause. Maybe a whisper from Eric.

Then a loud response from Pam. And even louder stomps up the stairs.

I back up against the wall, it's all I have time to do, before Pam throws open the door. She's still in one of the black, tight outfits she wears during work hours, her makeup so thick and dark it might be comical if she weren't so beautiful despite it. At the sight of me, she huffs out a breath and slams the door behind her. "Whatever you want him for, I suggest you wait."

She walks away, hips swinging, without further explanation. Leaving me to bite my lip and consider. Pam knows Eric in a different way than I do. If she says to wait . . .

But it will be dawn soon. And I had a vision. I'm supposed to come to Eric when I see things, he's told me that time and again.

 _And the scream. That awful scream._ That was the worst part of the vision, that cry of pure pain, and I can still hear it echoing in my memory . . .

_This can't wait._

I pull open the basement door. A musty, cold air greets me as I poke just my head into the darkness, keeping my feet in the hallway. "Eric?"

From here, I can see the stairs going down, nothing more. The actual room part of the basement is to the right, out of my line of sight, so I don't see Eric. But I hear him.

"You are not supposed to be down here!"

I could point out that I am still, technically, in the hallway. If Eric were in a good mood, he might find that a little amusing. But he is not. Instead, he is mad enough to raise his voice to me, and just did, so I slam the door and run back to his office.

. . . . .

He arrives fifteen minutes later.

I have, of course, been pacing, and I spin to face Eric as he pushes the already-open door open a little wider. He's shirtless, wearing an untied red silk robe over matching pants, the sort of lounge outfit I only see him in every now and then, and some faraway part of my mind wonders what he's been doing tonight, but of course that isn't a priority. His eyes land on mine as he comes in, but he doesn't break stride, just looks to his desk and, even as I open my mouth to begin, says, "Whatever it is, I don't have time for it."

I shut my mouth. I cross my arms, tightly, as he moves around his desk and starts ruffling through papers, searching for something. I don't ask what, I don't try to guess. After a moment, I turn for the door, gripping my arms and not letting myself duck my head.

I hear him sigh. "Annika."

I swallow hard and turn around, my chin up. Eric's bent over the desk, knuckles against the wood. "What is it?" he asks, his voice much softer. I love him for that. But that's all the more reason I don't want to annoy him.

So I drop my eyes. "I don't – it might not be important –"

"Tell me."

I tell him.

I describe the vision, from the two strange vampires to what the man said, and tell him about the scream I heard at the end. By the time I've finished, he's the one who is pacing, his eyes far away, and I watch from the couch, fidgeting.

"And you're certain this was a vision?" His voice has hardened again.

"Yes. I was awake. And . . . it was clear. As clear as this is, now." I almost mention the headache I had afterwards, but no, that's something to mention when Eric doesn't so clearly have other things weighing on his mind.

His robe floats behind him as he walks. Like a halfhearted cape. "Tell me again what the man said."

I lick my lips. "He said, 'Of course he who is proven guilty of –"

" _He?"_ Eric stops in the middle of the room, eyebrows up. _"_ A moment ago you said  _one._ Which is it?"

"Um . . . You – you're right, I think it was  _one._ Sorry."

He waves a hand, long legs moving again. "Go on."

I stare at the floor, because it's grey and blank and that helps me concentrate on the living pictures in my head. "'Of course one who is proven guilty of such a crime must be made an example of. This kind of moral anarchy cannot . . .' That's all I heard." I close my hands around each other. "That's when the scream started."

Eric whirls away from the desk to stride once more to the door, moving too much, too fast for this room – it feels like he might burst through the roof at any second. "You say the woman was redheaded?"

"Yes."

"And beautiful?"

"Yes. Wearing fur. And lots of jewelry."

He turns from the door, grinding his jaw. He knows who she is, the redhead, he must. How can I ask him –

Eric sweeps his arm along his desk, sending the telephone, a cup of pencils, and maybe a dozen papers flying. The phone  _whacks_  against the wall and lands with the receiver a foot from its holder, the curling cord twisted in an 8-shape, as the pencils scatter and roll across the room. One bumps into my foot. The papers flutter through the air, scraping against the desk and floor as they land, while I sit as still as possible.

Eric leans over the desk, his back to me. I'm all too aware of my heart, because it's beating in my throat. I know Eric can hear it.

I want to leave. But I'm not supposed to walk away from Eric unless he says I may. So I don't know what to do. But I don't like feeling like this. I don't like Eric being like this. He doesn't lose control very often, at least not where I can see, and even when he does, I usually know the reason. I don't this time, not really. And that's scary.

Finally – "Bill Compton has gone missing. I don't suppose you've seen or sensed anything about that?"

"No, I would have told you if I had." The words slip from me like a trickle of water. I sound half my age. Bill Compton . . . I don't know much about him, other than that he is a vampire and that Sookie Stackhouse, a telepath Eric has hired a couple of times, belongs to him. "Is that why Sookie was here earlier?" I ask, prompting Eric to halfway-turn his head, so I can see his profile, which gives nothing away. I almost explain how I felt Sookie come and go around midnight, for barely five minutes, but decide he can guess that for himself and instead say, "Eric, what's going on? Who were those people I saw?"

"No one who concerns you."

"But . . . I am concerned."

He doesn't seem to hear me.

After a minute, he straightens to his full height. "Thank you for telling me," he says over his shoulder as he moves around his desk, ignoring the mess on the floor. "Go to bed now."

Go to bed? Without him giving me the slightest hint about what's happening, why he's so upset, what Bill Compton and those people in my vision have to do with any of it? "Eric . . ."

"I said go to bed."

I rise, because his tone didn't give me any other choice. I allow myself one second to stare at him, on the incredibly tiny chance that could change his mind and cause him to tell me more, but he doesn't even notice and that's as much of a hesitation as he's likely to tolerate. So I leave.

I close his office door behind me.

I go to my bedroom door.

I stand outside of it for a while.

_No one who concerns you._

That's just not true.

I tiptoe past the office door, down the hallway, and out into the bar.

Like I expected, I find Pam there, counting the money in the register. "Pam?" I try to say quietly, without actually whispering. That would make her suspicious.

"What?" She doesn't look up, doesn't miss a beat in sliding bills from one hand to the other too fast for me to follow. I climb onto a barstool across the counter from her and fold my arms in front of me. I glance back at the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, then begin.

"Why is Eric . . . on edge?"

"Super-fun vampire problems. You have so much to look forward to."

"What sort of problems?"

"Weren't you listening? The super-fun vampire kind."

I fight the urge to roll my hands into fists.  _Heaven forbid anyone tell Annika anything . . ._ I take a deep breath, and, before I can back out of my half-formed plan, say, "I had a vision."

"Did you tell Eric?"

_Careful, Annika. Careful._

"He said he didn't have time for it. But . . . I think it could be important. I saw him with people I don't know. One of them was saying things that sounded . . . I don't know, dangerous."

Pam's hands slow as she studies me. She must see something in my expression that tugs at her, because she puts the money aside and presses both palms flat on the counter. "Explain."

. . . . .

 _"Shit."_ Pam spins and stalks down the length of the bar. "The goddamn magister."

She isn't yelling, but I really, really wish she would speak softer. "What's a magister?"

"An overrated, undersized pain-in-the-ass . . . He's law enforcement. Largely  _archaic_  law. Vampire judge and fucking jury."

"And the woman?"

"Sounds like our darling queen . . .  _Shit._ "

The queen. I've heard Eric and Pam mention her, though never in detail. All states have a vampire monarch, I know that much, but it's always seemed to me that Louisiana's queen likes to take a hands-off approach. For her to come to Fangtasia . . .

But Pam is clearly more concerned with the man, isn't she? The  _magister_. "Why would they be here?" I ask. "What was he talking about, the magister, when he said  _moral anarchy,_ do you know?"

"Of course I know." She snaps to a stop in her original place across from me. "Eric needs to hear about this, now."

"I already have."

Pam whips her head towards the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. I don't even look. I lower my eyes. And my head. And my shoulders. "She said she hadn't told you," says Pam.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eric coming up my side of the bar, moving slowly. "No," I tell him, though my head stays down, "I said you said you didn't have time for it. Which you did say. I  _didn't_  lie." I force myself to look at him now, and I have to stiffen my shoulders to keep from flinching away. He's nearing, and there's nothing good in his eyes. "I'm sorry, but – it was  _my_ vision, and I just wanted to know who it was I saw, and why does it matter if I know –"

"Stop.  _Talking!"_

My mouth falls shut more than it actively closes. I turn back to my hands. A lump forms in my throat.

The next thing I know, Eric has a handful of my shirt. He hauls me from the barstool and puts me down with a push that sends me stumbling. "Go to your room. I suggest you get comfortable. You will want to stay out of my sight for several days."

I wrap my arms around me. "Eric, I'm sorry -"

_"GO!"_

He bellows that. Like I heard him bellow earlier. Like I couldn't imagine him ever bellowing at me.

I drag my feet – in their stupid new shoes that Eric paid for – like a beaten dog as I go to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, and I don't care how pathetic I look. Behind me, Pam mutters in German, which I don't speak but recognize because it's what Pam and Eric always speak when they don't want me to know what they're saying.

My eyes burn. I'm allowed to know so little around here, aren't I?

Eric snaps something back at Pam. I don't hear anymore after that, because I'm through the door and slinking down the hallway to my room, where I suppose I'll be living from now on. For now, I don't mind that. For now, I just want to sit in the dark and cry into my pillow.


	4. Value

Eric has sent me to my room before. Not often, but enough for me to have learned to expect him not long after. Sometimes he comes to scold me some more, maybe even take something away, but that's not common. It kills me when Eric is unhappy with me, and though I've never told him that plainly, I'm sure he knows it. I think that's why he typically only comes to my room to be certain that I understand what I did wrong and that I know not to do it again. Then it's over. And usually he pats my head or teases me a bit or does something else to let me know he still likes me.

But Eric doesn't come to my room this time. I sit on the floor for the better part of an hour, past what I know is probably dawn. I hug a pillow and sob into it for the first few minutes, because that's the only hope I have of Eric and Pam not hearing if they listen in, though it's a small hope. Then I just watch the door, minute after minute after minute. Dreading it opening, until I realize how close it is to dawn. Then I want it to. Desperately.

But it doesn't.

And I shouldn't be surprised, should I? Eric wanted me out of his sight.

He's never told me to stay out of his sight before.

I change into a giant Fangtasia shirt, my favorite thing to sleep in. Every move I make is slow. I go into my bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face with cold, cold water. Then I turn out my bedroom lights, get into bed. Flip my pillow so I'm not sleeping on the damp side. But there was no point in doing that, because I soon start to cry again.

. . . . .

My tutors come the next night, which is no good for any of us, because I'm miserable about Eric being upset with me and hungry because I didn't want to risk leaving my room and running into him. I know better than to think he wants me to starve, but I don't know how to handle things when he wants me  _out of his sight._ Going hungry feels like a better option than running into him out of my room right now. I know that much.

After my French tutor leaves – with a long, overly-dramatic lecture about my inattention – I curl up on my bed and stare at the wall, running through different, inadequate ways of how to earn Eric's forgiveness, and I've lost track of how long I've been doing that when everything becomes too still. The pulse. The vibrations that run through my room almost every night, the distant rumbling of music – it's stopped. But the clock on my bedside says  _1:17_ – which is almost three hours before the club closes.

My stomach twists. I roll up and set my feet on the ground, listening, waiting for the music to start again, but it doesn't.

Something's wrong. Eric and Pam are good at what they do. They keep things running smoothly, always. They would never unexpectedly shut down the club on a whim.

I cross the room and press my ear against the door. I stay like that, perfectly still, for two minutes, listening to nothing.

Then I slip into the hallway.

The silence is creepy, which it shouldn't be. I'm in this hallway all the time when the building's mostly empty. But there's something different about it now, something colder. I tiptoe down the hall, passing the open door of Eric's dark, empty office. Towards the EMPLOYEES ONLY door.

I can hear talking. A woman's high voice . . . then Eric's low one . . .

I take three more steps, and the words start to make sense. And the first ones I pick up chill me, for no reason more than that the voice saying them is the voice from my vision. The one belonging to the man in the plain black suit. The magister.

". . . the blood is sacred. Wasting it on anything other than procreation is blasphemy."

"Madness," says the woman.

"Desecration," says Eric.

I press against the wall. Eric has given me his blood more times than I can count. He gave his blood to Sookie, too . . . He's gone against the magister, then, against vampire law? What does that mean? What would happen to him if he was found out?

The magister speaks again, every word easy, words of a man with all the power . . . He speaks like I hear Eric speak a lot. I don't like hearing it from anyone else. "Have you noticed an uptick of users in your neck of the woods? Maybe even here, in your . . . club?"

"I haven't, no," says Eric.

"See, that's surprising to me. Because every other sheriff to whom I've spoken has."

Users . . . Users of vampire blood – V. That's become a common thing – well, as common as any illegal drug – since the Great Revelation. Vampire blood makes you feel  _amazing_ , strong and happy about everything, capable of anything – which is why, except for the few times he's used it to heal me, Eric has only given it to me in very, very small amounts, droplets, really, usually in tea or juice – just enough to keep his blood tie to me strong, he says. And even those droplets are delightful, sending energy,  _excitement_  through my veins each time . . .

"The amount of users is so great, in fact," the magister is saying, "that we can only assume a vampire is responsible."

The woman – the  _queen_ – speaks up again. "An act of self-loathing so shameful that whoever  _is_ responsible should fall on his own stake." Her voice is smooth, pretty, like an actress's.

"Respectfully, Magister," Eric says, "I'm not sure I follow your logic."

"If your average, run-of-the-mill drainers were behind this, it would stand to reason said drainers would need vampires to drain. Which means there would be missing vampires, and plenty of them . . . How many vampires have gone missing in your area?"

My heart beats once before Eric answers, "None, Magister."

I press my knuckles to my lips.

"So," says the magister. "Now do you follow my logic?"

"I do. And I will look into the matter."

"Good . . . And  _I_  will expect results."

The first time I heard him talk, in my vision, I thought the magister sounded catlike, but no, not quite – he sounds far more like a snake. A hissing snake.

"You will have them," Eric says, as calm as he's ever been.

The harsh sound of a chair scraping over the floor, and then some sort of clicking noise against the concrete – something that isn't a footstep, but that moves steadily across the room like a single shoe walking alone, confidently. I can't figure out what it is.

"When we do find the vampire who is responsible . . ." the queen says, and her voice has moved, too – towards the door? Are they leaving? "How will you punish him?"

"Or her?" Eric says.

"And will it be in public?" the queen asks.

The magister says, "Of course one who is proven guilty –"

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"– of such a crime must be made an example of. This kind of moral anarchy cannot be allowed."

No scream. No scream, and that's almost a relief, but . . . why did I hear it in my vision, then? Where did it come from?

"Agreed," I hear Eric say.

"To a speedy resolution," says the magister.

"The speedier the better," says the queen.

"Magister," says Eric, and it's a farewell. The  _click . . . click . . . click_ leads up to the club's door opening and shutting soundly, and for a moment, there's quiet.

Then, "I am sorry you had to go to the trouble of bugging my office, your Highness. I do wish I could have proven trustworthy enough for you not to have felt it necessary." I know what it means when Eric uses that tone. He's a trap ready to spring and snap bone.

The queen  _bugged his office?_

She snorts. "Oh, get over it. Everything I heard only confirmed your loyalty to me – you should be happy. Anyway, I'm surprised your little  _psychic_  didn't pick up on it. And rather disappointed, if I'm being honest. It was my understanding that she was something quite special."

"Well," Eric says as a piece of my heart caves in, "she is young. Your Highness, we need to discuss –"

"Although she did foresee this little visit. And she caught that  _moral anarchy_ snippet perfectly, didn't she? I suppose that does make her a rather impressive creature. How much did you pay for her?" When Eric doesn't answer, she laughs a bit. "Alright, I'll rephrase. How much would you ask for her? If . . . I indicated interest?"

"You are my queen," Eric says. "If you wanted her, she would be yours."

I take a step back.

"Hmph," goes the queen, as I lean – no, fall, I fall against the wall, hand over my mouth, chest tightening like the air is being sucked from my lungs. "No," I think she says, but it seems like she's much farther away now. "Better to leave her in your care. Children are such chaotic little beasts. I know you'll use her to serve me, as you have always done  _so_ faithfully . . ."

"Your Highness, forgive me," says the man who raised me, the man who just offered me to this  _stranger,_ "but if we could return to the topic at hand . . . the magister . . ."

"You don't think he believed us?" says the queen, and what she means by that, I don't know or care or stay around to understand. I return to my bedroom, although exactly how I do that, I'm not certain – but I'm here now, leaning against my closed door from the inside, panting – sobbing? No, no tears. Panting. Breathing is hard, suddenly. Now I'm on the floor.

_You are my queen. If you wanted her, she would be yours._

I slam my hand against the door so hard it rattles.

A minute later, I do that again.

_You are my queen._

I use the doorknob to pull myself to my feet.

_If you wanted her, she would be yours._

This time, I slam both of my hands against the door.

_You are my queen._

To my left is the table where I do my lessons, piled with books I'm supposed to study because  _Eric_  wants me to.

_If you wanted her –_

In a wide swipe of both of my arms, I send all the books to the floor in a soft sort of crash, not enough, not nearly –

_– she would be yours._

My dresser. My dresser has lots of pretty things on it.

_You are my queen._

Little wooden horse, a toy from my childhood. How perfectly it fits in my hand. I fling it somewhere.

_If you wanted her –_

I kick the dresser because that seems like it would feel good and grab something else, a photo in a bronze frame, the farmhouse – I throw it –

_– she would be yours._

I kick the dresser again, shake it, and, oh, the music box, the one from Pam, I yank the small drawer out of it, all the way out of it –

_You are my queen –_

– and here it is, the bracelet, the gorgeous golden bracelet with the three shining black diamonds, from Eric, a gift from Eric for my tenth birthday–

–  _If you wanted her –_

I cling to the bracelet, cover the stupid diamonds with my fingers, and pull my arm back –

–  _she would be yours –_

A hand closes around my wrist. "That is enough."

Everything stops, my brain, my heart, the room. Too still. I jerk my arm, but can't get it loose. "Let me go!" I struggle against his grasp, which does nothing. The bracelet is pulled from my fingers, making everything worse, somehow, and I latch my free hand onto his arm, the arm of the hand holding my wrist, and pull, push, pull. "Let me  _go!"_

And now my other wrist is trapped, too. Both wrists encircled by iron, for all intents and purposes. Not fair, not  _fair –_ I yank and shake my arms, trying to get them back, but it doesn't work, of course it doesn't work, and I stomp my foot like an infant, once, twice, and that's all I have, then. That's all I have. I can't even keep my head up after that. I certainly can't keep back the tears. So I slump, standing only because his hold on me gives me no other option, my hair falling around me like a too-thin curtain, and I cry.

The hands stay around my wrists. Not moving. Not too tight, or too loose. Just solid.

"I was  _bluffing,_ Annika," Eric finally says.

I don't look up. Of course he knew I was out there. I can't do anything without him knowing. Haven't I learned that?

"I was confident that she had no genuine interest in you. If she had, I would have talked her out of it. If that had not worked, I would have resorted to other means. But she would not have taken you. You are mine, nobody takes what is mine. You know this."

I sob, just once, just a little sob. But there are more coming, I know. I feel them rising.

Some small change – Eric's hands have moved. His fingers still hold my wrists but looser, a little. His thumbs press against my palms. "Child, why do you doubt me?"

There's something in his voice then, some streak of something unlike him, something less tall and strong and fierce than every other part of who he is, and that streak is enough for me to open my mouth, and I close it right after but open it again and words come out. "Sometimes I . . . I don't know, I – Sometimes I'm not sure – what I, what I am – to you – sometimes, I – I don't – I don't – I don't know, what – I – I –"

"Stop."

"I – I just – I'm not – certain –"

My wrists are free. I can't see clearly anymore, but the mix of colors that are Eric's shoes morph into something different, and he's holding my face. "Shh." He wipes my cheeks with his thumbs. "Breathe. Breathe . . ." He pulls me to him – he's lowered to my level – he pulls me to him and I curl my arms around him, breathing, sobbing, breathing, and he strokes my hair, his hand covering most of my head.

. . . . .

Eric was already a sheriff in Louisiana when I was born, but he kept me in Sweden because he thought it was a better place for me to grow up. He managed to be there for a week or two most months. Still, there were many times in those eight years when I was upset, hurt or scared somehow, and he wasn't there to comfort me. I had to make do with a nanny, which was never as good, and sometimes I refused whichever one I had at the time altogether and calmed myself on my own. Because no nanny ever felt right. They were too hot, and they had heartbeats. Eric didn't, and because I preferred him, I preferred that. Craved that.

I still do. Here, now, with my head tucked into Eric's neck and his arms around me, I am soothed by the silence of him. The stillness. No heartbeat. No blood pumping. He is calm, in the way a forest is calm after a snowfall, and I could fall asleep here.

But now, gently, he puts his hands on my shoulders and separates me from his chest. I sniff and let out one leftover ragged breath. Eric tucks my hair behind my ears and brushes lingering teardrops from my face. "Tell me something, little one," he says in a voice like rain on a window when you're inside and warm. "Is there another human in this world whom I would get on my knees to comfort?"

I look down. I hadn't been aware enough to understand entirely what was going on, but now I see that Eric is kneeling. "Probably not," I say in a voice that's still a little broken.

"You know perfectly well there is not." He rests one hand on my shoulder. He traces the index finger of the other over my face. "If you truly doubt what you are to me, that should make it clear to you."

I inhale and nod, maybe a little too much.

"I would never give you away, you silly girl. I would never allow anyone else to have you. How could you think that?"

I swallow. "I don't know, you just . . . You were so angry, last night . . ."  _You yelled at me,_ I almost say, but how whiny would that sound?

Eric's voice dips. "You went behind my back, Annika."

"I  _know,_ I know it was bad, and I'm sorry, I just, I –" A new rush of heat rises from my neck and into my eyes, and I clench my teeth. "You weren't telling me something, who the people I saw were, and I was worried and it seemed like something I should know –"

"You do not decide what you should and should not know. I do. No, no," Eric adds as a new tear slips from my eye, racing down my cheek like it knows it's not wanted. His thumb catches it. "No, Annie, don't . . . start crying again. There's no need. Just listen to me. Listen." He takes my head in both hands. "I have told you this before. There are some things I would spare you from. Some things you are better for not knowing –  _safer_ for not knowing. The queen, the magister, their reasons for coming here –"

_Have you noticed an uptick of users in your neck of the woods?_

" – Perhaps that information is not dangerous to you, perhaps it is. Either way, you do not need to know it. You do not need the burden of knowing it, you do not need the worries such a burden brings. You are a remarkable child, Annika. But a child nonetheless." He smooths my hair. "I will  _tell you_  that which you need to know. I will protect you from that which you do not. And you must trust my judgement as to which is which." He tilts his head down. Our eyes are inches apart. "You must trust  _me_."

There are a hundred questions I could ask him, some of them so important.  _Why did you lie to the magister about Bill Compton? What would happen if the magister knew you've given me your blood? What did the queen mean by 'You don't think he believed us?'_

But I just say, quietly, "Yes, Eric."

He nods once. Then he kisses my forehead.

"I  _am_  sorry I went behind your back," I whisper.

"Do not do it again."

"I won't."

He looks at me for a long time. Then he murmurs, in Swedish,  _"I would have ripped the queen's head off before I handed you over to her,_ Annika Northman." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the golden bracelet. The black diamonds catch the fluorescent light and gleam as he hands it to me.  _"Do not underestimate your value to me again. It is beneath you."_


	5. Jagged

Light.

Through my eyelids. Golden, colored like warmth. Not like the lights in my room, the white lights.

A breeze . . . I'm dreaming.

A hand on my shoulder . . . and . . . something's wrong. Something's wrong with the hand, it's not . . .

_It's not cold enough._

"Hey, kid. Hey, you hear me?"

_I don't know that voice._

I open my eyes to light, real light,  _sunlight_  – it  _hurts –_

I jump away from the hand, the wrong, warm hand. Trip a little. Blink a lot.

"Whoa, hey, hey –"

I'm on a street. Somehow – somehow I'm on a street.

_This is a dream._

But it's not, is it? No, I know it's not.

Cars cruise along on my right, buildings stretch along to my left, and a tall, black man who I don't know stands over me, hands up, palms out, eyes wide. "It's okay, kid. Jesus. Everything's okay."

Oh, he's wrong about that.

I fall away from the street as a car passes, press my palm against a cool stone wall. "Where –" I look down. I'm in a long-sleeved black silk shirt and matching pants. Pajamas. My new tennis shoes are on my feet, blue and absurd-looking against the silk, and I don't remember putting them on . . . I don't remember how the hell  _I got here._

"Where . . ." I say again, but the rest of the words just aren't strong enough to jump off my tongue.

"Hey, hey, everything's alright, okay?"

I take another step back from the man. The street isn't empty, not by far, which is a good thing. There's an old man in a doorway a short way past this stranger, peering out at us with his giant bushy eyebrows close together. A woman isn't far from him, and her face is covered in giant sunglasses, but her head is pointed our way. Two women sit on a bench across the street – There's a fat man walking a tiny dog – Honestly, there must be at least two dozen people just within shouting distance, more, really, since I can't see everyone in the stores.

The stores. There's a glass door just a few feet in front of me. On the front, in white lettering:  _Emma's Fashions_. That's . . . familiar. Isn't it? I scan the signs on the buildings across the street.  _Little Shop of BIG Finds_  . . .  _The Red Bookshelf_. . .  _Shreveport Pet Barn . . ._

_The Jagged Café._

That place. Three shops down, with a green roof and a patio. I've been there. With Eric. I remember because I thought I must be wrong about what  _jagged_ meant, but he told me I wasn't, and then we agreed it was a silly name. I got a brownie there. We sat outside for a half-hour or so and left because it started to rain.

It was just one of those nights, one of those places Eric takes me for a meal or a treat once every month or so. And we drove here, because sometimes Eric just feels like driving, and it wasn't a long drive, was it? From the club to here?

God, it's been  _months . . ._

"What're you doin' out here? You all alone?"

The man's still in front of me, though he's dropped his hands. He's looking at me like he's never seen a kid before.

"I'm . . ." I lick my lips. "I'm waiting on someone."

"You're – kid, you were totally out of it, you know that? You was like a zombie. You s'posed to be out here? Where're your parents?"

"What time is it?"

"Here. Maybe we should call –"

" _What time is it?_ " I cross my arms. "Please."

"Okay, okay . . ." He checks his watch. "Okay, it's five-thirty-eight."

Five-thirty-eight. An hour before sunset, maybe two – I'm not sure, I don't see the sun set very often, but I know in October it happens fairly early. Just an hour or two . . . I can make it for just an hour or two. Wait for Eric to come find me, which he will, the second it's dark and he wakes up to feel whatever he feels when I'm not where I should be. That's kind of my only option anyway, right? Waiting? I can't tell this guy, can't tell  _anyone_ where I live, because most humans don't understand why Eric has me, it would be a mess . . . Yes. I can do this. I'll just wait.

"Thank you," I tell the man, and I walk past him.

"Wait – hey, hey, where you going? You know where you are? Kid! Where're your parents?" A pause, then one final "Kid!" and he gives up. I keep walking, past the old man in the doorway and the woman in the glasses – she asks if I'm alright, but I ignore her and she doesn't press me. I take a crosswalk and avoid the eyes of strangers as I make my way to The Jagged Café. There, I sit at a table in the corner of the patio, where I don't think the people inside can see me through the glass door. Sometimes people don't let you stay at places if you don't buy things. I pull my legs into me, wrap my arms around them, ignore the chilly breeze messing with my long, loose hair, and wait for night to fall.

. . . . .

It's hard to tell exactly when the sun sets – or, finishes setting, I suppose. The buildings are short but they still block out the horizon, at least from where I am, tucked into a patio. And the streetlights came on when the sky got to a deep enough blue, so those mess with my judgement, too, but when the windshields of the cars that pass have lost all signs of the orange glare from the sun, I start counting.

I'm at three-hundred-and-fifty-four when Eric pops up in front of me. I jump because it happens so quickly. I shrink back because there's murder in his eyes. And I flinch because of the wave of all sorts of bad and scary feelings that rushes out of him and into me.

"What  _the hell_  are you doing?!" he snarls.

I expected this. I've spent the last hour or so practicing exactly what to say in this moment. I had a well-constructed, calm and quick explanation laid out word-for-word.

And it crumbled into dust the moment Eric showed up.

"Eric, I swear, I don't know what happened, I  _swear_! I don't know how I got here! I just woke up here, down the street! I didn't mean to!" I swallow. I can't read him, psychically or otherwise. He's perfectly still, the closest streetlight casting his face in shadow. "I don't remember anything . . ."

"You just woke up here?"

"Yes."

"You were sleepwalking?"

"I guess, I – I don't know. I just . . . woke up. Dressed like this."

He takes in my outfit before sliding his eyes away.

I hug myself. There are goosebumps all over my arms, but that's happened on and off over the past hour. Autumn in Louisiana can never decide whether to be cold or not, but tonight it's been doing its best. "Eric. I would never leave the club without your permission. I don't know how I got here. I . . . Please believe me, I . . ."

"Shh."

He rests his hand on my head, and I relax, for the first time, truly, since I woke up. "Are you alright?" he says, his tone opposite in every way from what it was ten seconds ago. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

His hand slips away. "You remember nothing?"

"I remember going to bed. That's it."

He stares at me in a way I don't like.

"I've never sleepwalked . . . sleptwalked?"

"Sleepwalked, I think."

"I've never done that before. How far away . . ."

"Close to a mile."

A mile. How could I walk a mile  _in the daytime_ without waking up?

He's still looking at me in that strange way. Almost blank, shielded, but . . . not quite. He's concerned. He doesn't want me to know, but he is.

"Is this really bad?" I whisper.

"No, dear,  _bad_ isn't the right word. It's . . . odd. You are cold." He's not even wearing a jacket. Normally he would have one for appearance's sake, but he's only in a shirt and pants. He came the instant he woke up. Vampires, as I understand it, don't typically bother with pajamas. They don't have to feel comfortable when they sleep. They just die.

"Come, little traveler." Eric offers his hand. "Let's get you back."

. . . . .

Pam sets a steaming mug of green tea on the table before me. "You were your best at age two, you know."

We're in the bar, alone, because the club doesn't open for another few hours. Eric and I have only been back for a short while, just long enough for me to shower and dress properly. My hair is pinned back, dripping water onto my spine. "You were housebroken," Pam continues, as I sip my tea and burn my tongue, "but you couldn't  _talk_ , you couldn't  _walk_  – at least not well enough to vanish in the middle of the day – Mmm. Better times."

That might have hurt me, if she hadn't just made me my favorite tea without being asked or ordered to. But probably not even then. I know her too well. "Did you even see me when I was two?" I ask, because I lived in Öland at the time, and Pam's never been a fan of the farm. I've always known her name – and that means a lot, because I learned to forget most people's – but before I was eight and in Louisiana permanently, it was rare for me to see her more than two or three times a year.

"Hm. You know, I don't think I did." She walks to the bar, rests against it with a sweet smile. "Better times, indeed."

"She was talking quite well at two." Eric has re-entered the room, the EMPLOYEES ONLY door swinging shut behind him. "In Swedish  _and_  English . . ." He meets my eyes. "I spoke with Dr. Ludwig. She can't be here until later this evening. Morning, actually."

"She doesn't need to be here at all."

"I am aware of your thoughts on the situation, and I am respectfully disregarding them."

"I'm not sick. I'm not hurt."

"You walked a mile in your sleep."

"Which I probably couldn't have . . . were I sick or hurt."

"You have nothing to fear. She won't be injecting you with anything."

"I don't  _fear_ injections. I don't  _like_ them."

He lifts an eyebrow but says nothing, which is very, very kind of him, as he's seen me cry more than once because I had to get a shot. And I don't cry often, certainly not from physical pain. I have a high threshold for that, Eric says so. But something about needles . . . oh, I hate needles.

But I hate Dr. Ludwig almost as much. Her hands are lukewarm, clammy, and rough, she doesn't like vampires, and in the few times I've seen her she's examined me like a dog at a vet and spoken to Eric like he's my owner. Which isn't the case. Not in the ways that matter.

"She'll do a physical examination," says Eric, "and if she finds nothing amiss, I'll follow her recommendations from there. I doubt it will take half an hour. You'll survive." He turns to Pam before I can think of any other point to argue. "I'm going now. I will be back before midnight. Check on her, will you?" He tilts his head towards me, and Pam nods.

"Are we still mad at her?" she asks as Eric walks my way. "For the other night?"

"I am not," he says, which I already more or less knew, but like hearing anyway. "However, you obviously have every right to be, especially if she has not yet had the sense to offer you a sincere and meaningful apology for dragging you into her deception." He gives me a look.

"Pam," I say. "I deeply and profoundly regret –"

" _Sincere_  and  _meaningful_ ," Eric repeats.

I run my finger over the rim of my mug of tea and look across the room. "I'm sorry, Pam."

She glances over my head, at Eric. "We both know that's probably the best you're going to get," he says.

Pam drops her eyes to me again, throws her head to the side, and struts out of the room. There was an  _I forgive you_ somewhere in there. You'd just have to know her to tell.

I twist in my seat and cross my arms over the back of the chair. "Where are you going?"

"To Bon Temps. To talk with Sookie."

"Does it have to do with why she was here last night?"

He tilts his head.

I shrug. "I felt her. And . . . someone else I know. Someone familiar, but I couldn't tell who."

"Jessica."

Bill Compton's progeny. "Was it about Bill?"

"Oh, with Sookie, everything is," Eric says quietly.

I tangle my fingers together. "Can I come with you?"

"I didn't realize you were so fond of her."

"I'm not. I mean – I like her well enough, I suppose. But I . . ." I scan the club, empty and dark. And . . . I don't know. Not as friendly as it usually feels.

Maybe I'm still on edge. Waking up in a place you don't know, not knowing how you got there, surrounded by strangers . . . It's stressful.

"I feel like getting out for a while," I say. "While . . . conscious. And you said Dr. Ludwig won't be here until the morning but that you'd be back before midnight, so . . . Please?"

It takes a few moments, and I've almost given up hope – but he nods. "Very well. Fetch a coat. A thick one, we're flying there. Gloves, too," he calls after me as I dart from the room, leaving my tea to grow cold.


	6. Beast

Sookie's house is in a clearing far from anything else. The gravel driveway – Eric landed here – leads to a wide front porch with rocking chairs and a swing, all lit up by an orange light hanging above the front door. The house has two stories painted a pale color that – it's hard to tell in the dark – may be starting to chip a little much. But it isn't a bad house, by any means. Old, but pretty, in a way.

"Does Sookie live alone?" I ask as Eric sets me down.

"Yes." He smooths my hair, then his own. Flying does not lend itself to well-behaved hairstyles.

"It's a big house." If you're not rich, at least. And Sookie's a waitress.

"It's a family house. She inherited it." He starts forward, nudging my arm. I fall into step, checking all the windows I can see. The only two that aren't dark are on the bottom floor, to the right. A white glow flickers past thin curtains and through the glass.

I unzip my coat, an inches-thick one lined with wool that I usually only wear in winter. "She doesn't have any family left?"

"No. She was orphaned as a child. Her grandmother raised her, but she died a short time ago."

"Why –" No, I shouldn't phrase it quite like that, not after what we discussed the other night. "Can I know why you need to speak to her?"

Eric hesitates. "She came to me last night because she believed she had found a clue to Bill Compton's whereabouts and wanted to know if I could tell her anything about it. I . . . knew more than I was certain at the time I wanted to share with her."

"But now you are certain?" We climb creaking steps to the creaking porch. I pull my gloves off and run a hand through my hair. It was still wet when we left the club, but now it's dry closer to the top. The ends are still damp and cold, though, almost icy.

"It would seem," says Eric.

We're at the front door. There's a window in the center of it, but it's covered from the inside.

"What was the clue?"

Eric looks at me, hesitating again, but I'll never know if he would have given me a real answer or not, because suddenly he snaps his head towards the door and says, "Hello, Sookie," and the next instant, the door opens, and the woman in question stands before us, one hand on the edge of the door, the other hanging by her hip. Holding a little gun.

I seem to have a habit of being around Sookie Stackhouse when she's armed.

Sookie looks from Eric to me and back again, her jaw set. Something stabs my gut – a hard feeling with no name I know. But it's angry and scared all at once.

And . . .  _there_. A tiny, warm rush of relief.

"They came for you," Eric says, without a hint of uncertainty.

_They?_ Who? The people who have Bill?

"Just one," Sookie replies. "This morning. He took off before I could get anything outta him . . . That why you're here? Or do you know somethin' about Bill?"

Eric shifts his weight. Something that doesn't belong on his face flickers across it anyway. "I lied to you."

Sookie narrows her eyes.

Eric jerks his head my way. "I do not expect you to invite me in, but may Annika watch television while we speak out here?"

No, no,  _no._ But I bite my lip.

". . . Of course." Sookie opens the door wider. "Come in, Annika."

I step over the threshold. It isn't as if I could refuse. Sookie uses her free hand to point to her left, where an archway leads to a living room lit only by a television. The screen is playing a scene from a black-and-white film. "Remote's on the coffee table. And there're snacks in the kitchen. Help yourself if you get hungry."

"Thank you," I say, eyes on Eric. He's still a foot outside the doorway, and I feel something there, blocking him from me, something invisible but strong, and it makes me nervous. But Eric gives me a nod, a firm one that says  _Go,_ so I turn and walk into the living room. The door closes behind me, and even with the television on, it seems too quiet in this unfamiliar house. I roll out of my coat, fighting tight shoulders.

My God. Eric is admitting to lying about  _something_ , Bill Compton is missing, people are after Sookie . . . and I can't begin to explain any of it.

Eric's voice echoes through my mind, like it does a lot:  _I will tell you that which you need to know. I will protect you from that which you do not. And you must trust my judgement as to which is which._

I drape my coat over the arm of a couch. I told him I trust him, and of course I do, of  _course_  I do . . . And I'm definitely not about to press him or challenge him anytime soon, but . . . I'm standing in a strange house while he and a human he really doesn't know all that well speak of things I almost certainly understand better than she does.

_You can't say that for certain. You don't what they're speaking of. You're quite ignorant for a psychic, aren't you?_

That's not Eric's voice. That's just mine, in my head . . . I can be quite cruel.

I find the remote and search the channels, but when I realize I've circled back around to the same black-and-white movie, I leave it there. A man in a long coat and a short-brimmed sort of hat people don't wear much anymore is yelling at a woman in curls and a sparkling dress. She smirks and calls him an animal. Then they kiss.

Humans have always been strange, I suppose.

I put the remote down and explore the room, cast in that dim television light. There are two couches and a few chairs, everything old-looking, nothing really matching but not exactly looking bad together, at least from what I can tell in the dark. There are a couple of bookcases, mostly stocked with thin paperbacks.  _The Lady and the Stableboy. Love's Final Stand._ Nothing I recognize.

Photographs are scattered across the room on different shelves and sidetables. I think I recognize Jason in one of them – he's Sookie's brother, I met him in Dallas – but he's years younger in the picture, wearing a colorful shirt and posing with a football over his shoulder. He's grinning at the camera like he knows exactly who's going to be seeing the photo, and he's sending a secret hello to them. In another frame is a picture of Sookie hugging someone I don't know, a black girl with long hair, over a cake that – I have to read it upside down – says  _Happy Birthday, Sookie._

I've never had a birthday cake. Or a party, really. Eric always gets me something, though, or takes me somewhere. That's more than enough.

There are a couple of older photographs – I think they're older, at least, their colors look paler – propped on a thin table beneath the farthest window of the room. One of them shows a young couple at their wedding. The bride is in that usual long white dress, the groom is in a tuxedo. The other photograph shows a lady grinning at the camera from beneath a big hat, long grey hair blowing in the wind as she stands over a flowerbed.

Sookie's parents and her grandmother, I imagine.

I study the first picture, the one of the wedding. Sookie's mother was pretty. Her dad wasn't ugly or handsome, exactly, but he's beaming in this photo, and that makes him look good. I've read enough to know how weddings are supposed to be happy occasions, perhaps even the happiest day of a person's life. But that's not really that true, as I understand it. So many marriages end badly. You don't find married vampires often, according to Eric, and when you do, it's usually about politics more than love – creating an alliance between two territories, or something like that. Even when two vampires  _do_  marry for love, it's rarely like a human marriage. Humans love monogamy – only sleeping with one person for all their life – but vampires live far longer and are far more practical in their expectations and rules. Eric says the vampire way typically works better.

But . . . these two people, Sookie's parents . . . they look happy here. Truly, totally happy.

My parents weren't married. All Eric knows about my father is that he was – is, maybe, who knows – German, like my mother, and a doctor, and that they were together long enough for me to be conceived, but he was out of her life by the time she realized she was pregnant. If my mother married after that, it didn't last long. Eric discovered that she was killed when I was still little. But my father . . . I suppose he could have an entire family somewhere now, couldn't he? I could have siblings.

Or he could be dead, too.

I step away from the pictures and all those troublesome thoughts. My father, who he is or  _was_  . . . that's all meaningless. The part he had to play in my existence is done. If he's alive, he's just another stranger in a world full of them, and he isn't worth dwelling over, any more than the dead woman who sold me to a vampire –

My stomach is gripped from the inside and tugged down. I go still. Something's off.

I look towards the archway leading to the foyer and then, beyond that, the kitchen. I can make out the shapes of a dining table, chairs, and a counter, and a window is above that, but between the night outside and the curtain over the pane it doesn't offer a lot of help, light-wise.

From somewhere in there, maybe in the part of the kitchen I can't see – a sharp creak.

_It's an old house, Annika. Old houses creak._

Whatever is holding my stomach squeezes.

I start towards the archway on tiptoe.  _"Don't do it!"_ someone on the television shouts, right before guns go off. I almost pause, but don't – I'm not the cowardly sort. And I'm probably scaring myself, right? I've done that before, become convinced that I'm sensing something when I'm really only letting my mind run away with me. I hate doing that, and I'm not falling into that trap this time, so towards the archway I go . . . Then into the foyer, searching the kitchen with my eyes . . .

A shape moves into view.

It creeps to the middle of the kitchen, a black cloud against the tile and shadows, like something from a Grimm's fairy tale. And then I'm staring into yellow eyes.

The thing holding my stomach wrenches violently, as if I still needed the warning. I step back –  _jump_  back. Lose my breath in the process.

Those eyes are very much not human, very much not vampire, very much like nothing I've ever seen before. They're closer to the ground than mine by at least a foot, but that isn't even slightly comforting, because they're  _hungry_  eyes. Animal eyes.

My moving back made the shape move forward, as if an invisible string attaches us. The front door is to my left, the porch light is shining through its little window, and though it's covered, enough light gets through to cast a patch from the archway behind me to a yard or two into the kitchen. And the shape, the eyes, come into the light.

The first thing I can make out is a paw, larger than any dog paw I've ever seen. Then a snout, and  _teeth_  – bared teeth, gleaming, long and sharp.

It's a wolf. There is a wolf is Sookie's kitchen.

"Eric," I breathe.

The wolf begins to growl, I swear I can feel the rumble in my feet. I might hear a  _thump_ from the front porch, but that's it – the wolf licks its lips –

_"Eric – !"_

The word isn't out of my mouth before the door slams open and Eric is here, a wall between the wolf and me, growling in a way that puts the wolf to shame. Which is why I find I can suddenly breathe again, why my feet so easily return me to the archway, where I watch, watch as the wolf crouches, as Eric starts towards it with a yell –

_BANG._

It feels like someone stabs needles into both my ears. I can't follow what happens in front of me, not exactly, but Eric goes from being two strides in front of me to being on the floor across the little room. I think I hear him yell again, but not like before, not like a war cry. Like he's been hurt. Sookie screams his name. She's standing in the front doorway. With that damn gun.

The wolf leaped at Eric right before the gunshot and was in the air when Sookie pulled the trigger, which means it's since landed in the empty space where Eric stood a half-second ago, but it immediately whirls and finds him again. Eric, still down, clutches his stomach as a red splotch spreads over his white t-shirt. He took the bullet. Sookie had to have been aiming for the wolf, but Eric  _jumped_ to take the bullet – ?  _Why – ?_

The wolf turns into a man.

It happens that quickly, that simply. The wolf just grows, standing on its back legs, replacing fur with skin, all so fast you could miss it with a blink, and a fully-grown, naked man covered with tattoos springs on Eric, who catches it – him – by the throat.

The man writhes and snarls at the end of Eric's arm as Sookie raises the gun. But Eric notices. "Stay back, Sookie!" he shouts. "Don't shoot him – he knows!"

"He knows what?" Sookie steps in front of me. Not so much that I can't see what's happening in her foyer.

"Who do you work for?" Eric's attention is back on the naked man. He sounds out of breath, and his blood is spilling onto the floor . . .

The man kicks, grapples with Eric's arm. "Give me a taste, fucker –  _c'mon –"_

_A taste?_

_"WHO_ SENT YOU?"

Eric must tighten his grip, because the man starts to gargle and croak. "Can't . . .  _talk . . ."_

Eric lets go. He inches his hand away, palm spread.

And the man bats his arm to the side and buries his face in Eric's wound. I hear a wet ripping sound, but only barely, because Eric's scream mostly drowns it out and tears through me and makes me scream, too. The man lifts his head a moment later, blood on his chin and flesh in his teeth. Laughing. He goes for the wound again, but Eric's ready this time, and he grabs the man's shoulder and flings him against the wall to his right, where he hits hard before flopping to the floor, legs sprawled. But he scrambles up and, because Eric is hurt, manages to start running.

Sookie aims.  _BANG._

The man falls with a yelp, his leg jerking in an odd way, and Eric's on him, pinning him stomach-down. "For the last time," my guardian says, speaking past his fangs, yanking the man's head back, " _Who_  is your master?"

The man's straggly hair blocks his face from view. "If I tell you, I'm as dead as you are! Y'might as well kill me now!"

Eric sweeps some of the man's hair away, baring his neck. There's a mark on the skin there, though I can't make out the shape. It could simply be a birthmark, except – except that I feel a tremor from Eric just as it's revealed, a tremor that jolts an ache into my bones.

"As you wish," Eric says, and he bites into – no, rips out the man's throat. The man screams, but not for long.

I slide down the wall. My arms loop over my knees. My chest hurts, I haven't been breathing well, have I? I inhale as deeply as I can, but the breath I take is crooked. Because I'm trembling.

Eric lifts his head from the man, gore hanging from his mouth. He makes a sound like a sigh mixed with a groan, and, as a puddle spreads around the dead man's head, says, "Oh . . ." and looks at Sookie. "I got your rug all wet."

I close my eyes.

"Annika," I hear Sookie say. She touches my arm. "Honey, are you alright?"

I nod.

"Of course she is." I hear Eric say. "I would have let her have the beast all to herself, if I weren't so greedy . . ." After a few moments, I hear his footsteps, and I sense him standing over me. I open my eyes and see his hand. The fingers are smudged with blood, but I take it anyway. Eric pulls me to my feet. I'm face-to-face with the wound in his gut. Bits of flesh cling to the torn, red-soaked fabric of his shirt.

Eric puts both hands on my shoulders.  _"Be still,"_ he says in Swedish. _"You are safe."_

He can feel me shaking, I'm sure. I don't know how to stop that. He's bleeding so much . . . _"You are . . ."_ Shot. Bitten. Shredded.

" _I am fine. So are you. Be brave for me."_

My mouth is dry, but I swallow anyway. It hurts.  _"It's just . . . I loved that shirt."_

He grins, even laughs a bit, white teeth flashing through the bloodstain around his lips.


	7. Young Ears

"You want some more water?" Sookie points at the glass in front of me. It's a big glass, but I've completely drained it in the rather short time I've been at her kitchen table. It took a lot for my mouth to stop feeling so dry.

I shake my head, folding my hands in front of me. "No, thank you."

She gives a stiff smile and takes the glass to the sink. She just carried the ruined rug out to her back porch, and Eric is out in the night somewhere, burying a corpse. He hasn't been gone long, but he probably would already be done were it not for the bullet wound in his stomach.

I wish he would hurry. I've been alone with Sookie before, but never on her territory. That changes things, somehow.

_Or maybe you just saw a man die and you're not yet up for normal conversation._

No, no. That's not who I am.

Sookie lowers into the chair across from mine. "You sure you're okay?"

"Of course."

"You don't have to be. Not with me. If you need to be upset, that could stay between us."

Her voice is soft, and I feel the warmth of her heart, like I always do – although tonight there's also a tight, twitching sensation underneath the glow, because of Bill – so I know she isn't trying to be anything but kind. I can't help that she's annoying me anyway.

_Be brave for me._

"If I needed to be upset, I would have been upset already. And it wouldn't need to stay between us," I add. "Eric's seen me upset plenty of times before. He's never made me feel bad about it."

"I didn't mean he would make you feel bad. I've seen how sweet he can be with you."

_Sweet._ That's not a word I've ever heard applied to Eric. It isn't inaccurate, not when it comes to him and me, but most people don't know that.

"It's just that sometimes we wanna put on our best faces for the people we love and admire. And there's a time and place for that, but . . . there's also a time to be . . . vulnerable. That's okay, too."

I wish I had her bring me more water. I miss having the glass to play with. I tangle my fingers together instead.

The front door opens. I'm sitting with my back to the foyer, so I twist in my seat to see Eric come in. "Well, that's done," he says, eyeing the place where the bloodied rug used to be as he steps over it and enters the kitchen. "Would you like to know where he is?" he asks Sookie.

"Not really." Her voice takes a turn. "I'd  _like_ to know if he knew where  _Bill_  is. So much for keepin' him alive."

"That's what I was planning." Eric runs his hand down my hair once before gripping the back of my chair.

Sookie tilts her head. "Until you saw his brand."

"That mark on his neck?" I say without thinking. Sookie's eyebrows pop up for a moment.

"It brings back many memories," Eric tells her. "Unpleasant ones."

"Why would he have a brand on his neck?" I know I'm pushing it, but it's not like I'm not involved with the problem. I was face-to-face with the man – the wolf – in question an hour ago. I watched him die.

Also, I really want to know why Eric would have  _many memories_ concerning werewolves. He's barely ever mentioned them to me.

But –

"Annika," Eric says, "go watch television."

I put my hands in my lap. "I won't ask any more questions."

"Do as I say."

I go, wanting nothing so much as to stomp my feet, but I have the sense not to do so. I just clench my fists really tightly.

I pace in the living room, listening over the television set (which I put on the lowest level of volume I think I can get away with) while Sookie and Eric speak in the kitchen, her eagerly and him in murmurs. He only raises his voice once:

"You have no idea how dangerous werewolves are!"

A pause, and then he goes back to murmuring.

After a few minutes of their back-and-forth, Eric appears in the archway of the living room. He jerks his head towards the door and takes my coat from the couch. I let him help me into it as Sookie comes out of the kitchen, arms crossed. She leans against the frame of the archway. "I leave tomorrow," she tells Eric. "I have to go, Bill would do it for me. I don't expect you to understand."

"I understand very well."

Sookie's eyes drop to me, and she lets her arms fall to her sides, but then clasps them in front of her hips. "If I do get into some kind of trouble . . . You'll feel it, right? Because of your blood?"

I twist my head back in time to see Eric nod.

"How fast can you get to Mississippi?" Sookie asks.

"Probably not fast enough." Eric steps across the foyer and opens the door, gesturing me through.

"Goodnight, Sookie." I cross onto the porch. The cool air feels good.

"'Night, Annika. Good seein' you."

Eric follows me out. Sookie takes the knob and looks out at us, in a reflection of how things were when Eric and I first arrived. Only now there's blood on his shirt. "Stay out of trouble, Miss Stackhouse," Eric says. "You'll be doing you and I both a favor."

Before she can answer, Eric's pulled me into his arms and we're gone.

. . . . .

We land in an alleyway. A man and woman happen to be walking past it at the time, and both gasp at our appearance – she shrieks a little – and hurry away, him practically dragging her. I hear Eric chuckle as he zips up his jacket, hiding his bloody shirt.

"What are we doing?" We're somewhere in the city, I can tell by the noise, the real honking-and-shouting noise and the noise inside of me that comes from lots of feeling and thinking people. I follow Eric to the sidewalk and find myself in the middle of a commercial sort of street, one that's packed with shops and parallel parking but that's bigger than the one I woke up on a few hours ago. The shops are all chains, not unique little places.

"We have some time before we can expect Dr. Ludwig at the club," Eric says, and my stomach flips – more than it should, really. I hate Dr. Ludwig, but she's hardly a danger. Eric nods at the shop across the street, where a neon blue-and-white sign flashes the name  _Johnson's Creamery_ in blocky letters _._

"It's been a stressful night." Eric takes my shoulder and starts guiding me along. "You need ice cream."

I put my hand on top of his for a second. He'll understand that means I love him.

I get a scoop of cookies-and-cream in a waffle cone and, because it's too cold to eat it outside, Eric and I sit at a table in the corner of the little shop. It's circle-shaped and bright red, like the tile on the floor. Eric takes a chair facing the entrance, like always.

"May I ask a question?"

"I will never forbid you from asking questions, dear. I just may refuse to answer them."

I rest my fist, firmly clenching the cone, on the sticky table. "Why is Sookie going to Mississippi?"

Eric's eyes dart around the room, but it's late, and the only other customers in here are a few people in their late teens or so, and they're across the room and too wrapped up in their own (impolitely loud) conversation to listen to us. "She heard the wolf thinking about Jackson. That's a city in Mississippi."

"I know where Jackson is, Eric."

"My apologies."

"And she wants to go where the wolf is from because . . . the wolves have Bill."

Eric nods.

"Why? What do they want with him? And why would they go after Sookie, too?"

"I have my theories." He doesn't elaborate.

Alright. "The brand, the brand on the wolf's neck – you said it brought back unpleasant memories. With other werewolves? Or something else?"

He rolls his eyes towards me.

"Eric, I know you said you decide what I should know and what I shouldn't –"

"To which, if I remember correctly, you said, 'Yes, Eric.'"

Fine, then. I lick my ice cream once. "Are you going to Mississippi, too? Because you're Bill's sheriff?"

"Bill is my responsibility," Eric says, "But he is not my  _only_ responsibility, and far from the most important one."

"You have to –" I stop.

"Have to what?"

"You . . ." I roll the cone between my fingers. "The magister asked you to find the vampire who's been selling blood."

"Ah, that's right. You were eavesdropping. And now I've bought you ice cream. I fear I may be sending you mixed messages."

"I'm sorry."

"I've promised the magister results. Yes."

"Why does he think it's so bad for vampires to give people their blood?"

"The sacred nature of vampire blood is an ancient belief, one which the majority of vampires, if they are being honest, do not ascribe to anymore. But those who do tend to be old and powerful."

I wonder if Godric ascribed to it. If he did, how would he have felt knowing that Eric has so often given me his blood? That he's given  _Sookie_ his blood?

And on that note . . .

"If the magister found out . . ." But no. No, I shouldn't say that out loud.

Eric understands anyway.

"Don't worry about the magister, Annie. I have everything under control. Haven't you learned that by now?"

I smile. And he does too, a little.

I can almost ignore the tiny twinge in my stomach that says,  _Be careful._

. . . . .

Dr. Ludwig finds nothing wrong with me, despite poking and pulling at my body like I'm a cheap doll for half-an-hour. She tells Eric – in her standard grumpy way – that there are a few vampire-friendly psychiatrists she could refer us to if he insisted, but that, with sleepwalking, there really isn't much to be done – not without resorting to magic, at least, and Eric shoots that option down immediately.

Dr. Ludwig says, though, that since I've only sleepwalked one time, there might be nothing to worry about. That it might have been a strange instance, a fluke.

Eric gives me one of my anti-anxiety pills before I go to bed. To help me sleep soundly, he says. But the truth is, I've been jittery ever since we got back to Fangtasia, and he knows it. Maybe it's because of the werewolf. Maybe it's because of the magister. I don't know, but I don't like it, it's not like me. Or . . . I don't want it to be.

That day, I sleepwalk again.

Eric had Ginger stay at the club from dawn to dusk, and – although I remember none of this after I wake up – she led me back to bed three times. The last time I was muttering, just one thing, she tells Eric –  _Stop it._ Over and over again. She would have thought it was to her, except that I didn't seem to know she was there.

Eric listens to her quietly. Then he looks at me for a while. Then he asks if I feel like going car shopping for one of his associates. An old friend of mine.

Which is how I end up in Bon Temps, in front of a small house decorated with multi-colored lights, blaring – with Eric's blessing – the horn of a gorgeous, shiny convertible. The car place we got it from opened just for us – well, for Eric. He picked out the model, but he let me choose the color. I went with red.

The little house's screen door swings open, and I stop honking as Lafayette steps onto his porch, wearing a yellow silk robe (fake silk, maybe). He sees us, recognizes us, and, although I can't hear him, his facial expression and gestures make me think he swears to himself. Maybe a lot.

I turn to Eric. The playfulness that was in his eyes when he told me to honk the horn is still there, but it narrows into something sharper as he rests his elbow on the door and lifts his hand, folding his fingers down one-by-one in a single wave.

Lafayette comes down the porch steps, tying his robe closed. "Hello, sweetheart," Eric calls to him pleasantly. He taps my arm. I scoot over, and he pulls me onto his lap before patting the passenger seat I just occupied. "Hop in," he tells Lafayette as he settles his arm on the windowsill behind me, brushing his thumb back and forth over my shoulder.

Lafayette obeys, plopping into the car like the trip from his house was miles long. "Listen," he says to his knees, in a way that makes it clear we're skipping pleasantries, "Listen. I moved what I could – I mean, even at half-off, the shit is  _still_  expensive –"

"Ah – Lafayette." Eric indicates me. "Young ears. Let's not bore Annika with the details of our business."

I glare at him. He ignores me. He told me when we were buying the car that it was for Lafayette, that he had hired him shortly after releasing him from Fangtasia's basement-prison right before we went to Dallas – "Lafayette is a capitalist, Annika, and for such people, money helps bygones more easily become bygones" – but he didn't say exactly what Lafayette does for him, and I didn't think to ask. Eric is a busy man, and I truly don't care to keep up with everything he does.

Except when he makes it clear that he doesn't want me to know. As he just did.

Lafayette stares at me like he's just now recognizing who I am – the girl he once begged for his freedom, the girl who saw him get shot.

_The girl who didn't help him._

No – the girl who was loyal to  _Eric_.

Lafayette huffs out a breath. "Look," he starts again. "I'm – I'ma just need some mo' time –"

"Relax," says Eric. "You'll ruin your new ride."

Lafayette blinks. "Huh?"

"Pam's been a bit harsh lately." Pam is Eric's second-in-command in virtually every area of his life, of course. She acts as a go-between a lot, I know that. "She's under a lot of pressure. I thought it'd be a good time for a small gift to my top salesman."

Lafayette's eyes have been tracing the car since he said  _'Huh?'_ , and I've been watching him, and  _feeling_  things from him – he's easy to read, his emotions are loud. He's scared, naturally, and angry, but he's also thrilled – although he doesn't want to be, he's shoving that emotion down, he assumes something's wrong here.

And one more thing. A sensation I've only felt once before – a vibration from him that matches perfectly with a vibration in me.

"Eric,  _did you give him your blood?"_ I ask in Swedish.

"Please don't interrupt, Annika," he says, not bothering to switch from English, until he adds,  _"But yes."_

Lafayette gulps, eyeing Eric. "What's the catch?"

"Well, you'll have to pay the insurance, of course, I'm not an idiot. And I'm going to have to sell you the car for one dollar to avoid that pesky gift tax . . ." He pulls the keys from the slot in the car and jingles them before Lafayette, who takes them as if they might bite. "Mind you, it may look a little, uh, out-of-place parked outside of that . . . strange plywood hut you live in."

I giggle.

"Nah," Lafayette says after a minute. "I ain't takin' no more of your shit."

Eric pulls his hand from my shoulder and braces it on the sill as he leans towards Lafayette. I feel the smile drop from my face as Lafayette presses back against the passenger door and Eric begins to whisper.

"You have great value, Lafayette. You're discreet. Efficient. And you have a network of loyal customers with enormous disposable income. You could become quite wealthy if you wanted to."

_What does Eric have him doing?_

"I don't need no mo' money," Lafayette says. But . . . something in him is stirring. He doesn't mean that, no, not at all, even if he wants to.

"No?" Eric straightens. I feel his hand beside my shoulder again, fingers tapping lightly on my coat. "I never thought of you as lacking in ambition, but perhaps you're content with moth-eaten afghans and second-hand furniture . . ."

Lafayette rubs a finger over the keys. They gleam delightfully in the moonlight. Finally he says, slowly, "I'll think about it."

Eric's arm loops under my legs before I know what's happening. "Don't make me wait too long." The door behind me opens with a  _pop,_ but Eric's other arm braces me so I don't fall back. "You can owe me the dollar."

"Enjoy the car – I hope you like red!" I call, wrapping my arms around Eric as he leaps from the seats. Then Lafayette, the convertible, the little house, and all of Bon Temps disappear. It's just me and Eric and sky.


	8. The Snake

I dig my hands into my hair as I spin on my heel for the thousandth time and cross my little room, moving yet again from the edge of my bed to my bathroom door. Then I spin on my heel for thousand-and-first time.

Every inch of my body is buzzing. It might only tickle, if it weren't all over, but it  _is_ all over, and most of all in my gut, so the overall feeling is closer to pain.

I lower my hands to my eyes, press my fingers into the sockets, feel the shallow dents that are the bags beneath them, feel the salt scrape around behind my eyelids.

_Tap-tap._

I whirl towards the door, half-crouching, before my mind reminds the rest of me that no one dangerous could ever get this far into Fangtasia, this close to me –

_No one? Really?_

– and also that that's Eric's knock.

I straighten. "Come in," I say. Hoarsely.

Eric enters and closes the door behind him. I clasp my hands in front of me, tilt my head back. All is well, of course all is well, don't I look happy and content?

"Ginger says you did not sleepwalk." Eric's eyes dart around as he takes in my face. "But looking at you now, it occurs to me that that may be because you did not sleep."

"Yes, I did . . . Some." I just set my alarm clock to wake me every half-hour. And was showered and dressed long before dawn.

"You are barely on your feet."

I press up to my tiptoes to prove him wrong . . . and lose my balance and have to catch myself.

"I am leaving to attend to some business," Eric says, "but it shouldn't take long. When I return, I will call Dr. Ludwig and get the names of the psychiatrists she mentioned."

"She said there was probably nothing they could do for me."

"Then they can tell me that themselves. I cannot do nothing. You are suffering."

There's an edge to his words, and I know that's for my sake, which means a lot, but psychiatrists make you talk about things in your head and I have no desire to share those things with a stranger. And I don't like making Eric worry, so . . . "I'm fine, Eric."

"You are lying to me. I thought you knew better."

I sigh and stay quiet.

"You are trembling."

I lift one of my hands for examination. He's absolutely right. I let my arm fall. "Can I come with you? Wherever you're going?"

"Not tonight, no."

I close my eyes.

"You know there are many things I do which are not suitable for a child's presence."

"Like tearing out a man's throat with your teeth?"

The room sort of settles around us. As if everything gets a little heavier. I begin to rub the patch of skin above my t-shirt's neckline, just below my collarbone.

"That  _man_ was a monster who could have ripped off your pretty little head without trying. I am sorry if you disapproved of my killing him, but I have no regrets."

"Of course I didn't disapprove of you killing him. I'm not an idiot. You didn't kill him because you thought he was going to hurt me, though. It's like Sookie said – you were going to keep him alive until you saw that brand on his neck."

"I know you are tired, but mind your tone when speaking to me."

I press my lips into a thin line, roll my fingers into fists as I let out a long breath. "I just – I was just saying, I just  _meant_ to say that I've been around many things that aren't suitable for a child. I'm not . . ." I pause. "I'm not like most children."

"No. You are not. And you have seen things I would rather you hadn't. But that does not mean you should see more of such things. And you are exhausted. I could not in good conscience take you anywhere tonight, regardless of the details."

I find the picture of a Valkyrie I have on my wall. I've never felt less Valkyrie-like in my life. Eric's right, of course. I'm in no state to go anywhere. But . . .

"I don't . . ." I start.

"What?"

"I don't want to be here."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"Do you sense something?"

"I don't  _know_."

"Annika, stop that."

I freeze, because I don't know what he's talking about, but then I feel the warmth on my chest. I've rubbed it enough to heat up my skin. "I didn't notice," I mutter.

"Sweetheart, this is important. Are you sensing something or not?"

"Eric, I swear I don't know. I can't tell. I'm sorry. I'm just . . . anxious, and – I don't know why." I wrap my arms around me and go to my bed. I sit on the mattress's edge and work to keep my breathing smooth, in spite of my swelling throat. I've been crying too much lately. I hate crying and I'm sick of it.

Eric nudges my closet door open and takes a bottle of water from the package I keep on the floor. He comes to me, pulling a little orange canister from the pocket of his jacket.

"I don't want a pill," I say. "They make me feel stupid."

"They also make you feel calm."

"They mess with my abilities. Everything I sense comes in slowly and it's never clear."

"Dear one, if you are indeed sensing something, it is already quite unclear. That is not a criticism. It is a fact."

It qualifies as both. But I don't bother saying so.

Eric drops the water in my lap and shakes a pill from the canister. I accept the thing, pop it in my mouth, and drink. When all that's done, Eric takes my head in his hands. "If you  _are_  foreseeing an oncoming danger, you will be protected from it. I will be back in no more than an hour. Pam will be here. This club is the safest place in the world for you. If you are simply sleep-deprived and nervous after the events of the past few days, remember that the wolf is dead and none of his friends have any reason to come for you. And the queen and the magister –"

_Oh,_ the magister, with his voice like a snake . . .

"– pose no threat to any of us, as long as I give them what they want, and I am going to do that. So please relax, and try to sleep while I am gone. Later we will work on finding a way to end this sleepwalking business, and all will be well. Alright?"

I nod. That's enough for him. He settles his hand on my head as he turns away, but he  _does_  turn away, and then he leaves, and I'm alone, and  _here,_ and I just  _don't want to be here._

I lift my tongue, reach into my mouth, and pull out the pill. Eric doesn't understand what it feels like to have your brain, your whole  _self_ slowed down. It is calming, sure. But when I come out of it, it hits me hard how helpless, how  _useless_ I've been for six hours. How many things I might have missed. And that's not worth it.

So I'll just stay miserable, I suppose. And maybe have Eric get angry and punish me later. Fine. I'm too tired to care . . . much.

Damn it all. I toss the pill on the floor, push the water bottle from my lap, and curl into my knees, wrapping my hands around the back of my neck. And my body buzzes like a ringing bell.

. . . . .

"You." Pam points at me, the door to the bar swinging behind her as she blocks my path.

I've been pacing up and down the hallway for the past – I don't know, twenty minutes. Maybe less. I really, really want Eric to get back, so, yes, the time is probably dragging. He said he'd be no more than an hour, though, and that's soon, relatively, that's really soon.

"You're driving me crazy." Pam stomps past me. "I can hear your shoes squeaking from every corner of the bar."

"These shoes don't squeak."

"I'm sorry, I forgot you  _also_ have the super-hearing abilities of the undead. Oh, wait . . ."

I follow her to Eric's office. It's Monday, and the club doesn't open on Mondays, so Pam is in one of her tracksuits, the kind that somehow looks as glamourous as any dress or fur. At least on Pam. "When's Eric getting back?"

"When Eric wants to get back." She bends over the desktop computer, where she starts tapping at her usual, supernatural rate. But then she stops. "What's with your heart?"

"My heart?"

"Yeah, your heart. It's racing. Jesus Christ." She really looks at me for the first time. Or maybe the fluorescent lighting is highlighting every flaw on my face. Maybe it's both. "Eric told me you hadn't slept. He didn't say you looked like hell."

"Thanks, Pam."

"Didn't he give you one of your happy pills?"

I shrug.

She pops her eyebrows.

"I told him I didn't want to take it. He made me anyway. So . . . I hid it under my tongue."

She tilts her head. "Why, Annika Northman. I do believe you're going through a rebellious phase. That's adorable. It'll be such a shame when Eric beats it out of you like dust from a rug."

I rest against one of the file cabinets. The metal is cold and feels good on my forehead.

Pam lets out a loud, exasperated sigh. "Look, I won't tell him. He gets irritable when he's upset with you, and I don't feel like dealing with that."

That's actually quite generous of her.

"But you look deader than I am," she continues. "So shelve the incessant pacing. Go get some sleep."

"I can't –" A shock runs through me. I shoot away from the file cabinet and stare at the door. My stomach is at my feet, the back of my neck is burning – and the  _buzzing –_

"Annika?" The sarcasm, the superiority, all of Pam's usual attitude has left her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Someone . . . I think someone's coming."

"Who?"

"Someone bad."

I hear her come up behind me. "Yeah, I'm gonna need more details –" She cuts herself off. "Shit. I hear them.  _Shit."_  She's around me and out the door, too fast for me to follow with my eyes. But I chase after her.

I see her down the hallway, standing perfectly still beside the door to the bar. Her profile is in shadow, but somehow, as I tiptoe closer, I can still see enough to fully understand that whatever's happening is very, very bad.

I hear someone shout beyond the door. Then a glass shatters. Maybe more than one.

"Pam?"

"Be quiet." She snags my arm and pulls me off, all the way to the basement door. She tugs it open and waves me through, looking over my head, although I don't think anyone's there. I start down the stairs.

The basement has lights, glowing yellow above the door and along the wall, close to the ceiling, but they're dim. No reason for them not to be, I suppose, since, as far as I know, vampires are virtually the only ones ever down here.

_The only ones ever down here_ willingly.

I take the stairs as fast as I can, Pam behind me. "What's going on?" I ask over my shoulder.

"What's going on is we're hiding. Not particularly well . . . but it'll buy us two minutes."

I reach the cement floor. I've never been this far in the basement, I've only ever stood on the stairs. The last time I even saw this room, Lafayette was chained in the corner and a ripped-apart body lay – well, right about where I'm standing. But right now, the dungeon – when it comes down to it, that's what this place is – is empty, except for Pam and me.

"Who is it?" I turn to Pam as she steps off the staircase. "Who's out there?"

"Be  _quiet_ , Annika." Pam's phone is to her ear. She glances up at the door and, of course, begins pacing. Because that's what we do.

"Eric," she says after a minute, her voice low. "We're being raided." She listens. I can hear Eric's voice, a little. It makes it so real, suddenly, how far away he might be – far enough away, at least, to  _not be here._

He said the club was the safest place . . .

When Pam speaks again, it's in Swedish.  _"It's not the police. It's the_ magister _."_

My mouth dries up. All its moisture seems to go to my hands, which I start wringing. The magister. Who I wasn't supposed to worry about. Apparently, he's now  _raiding_ the place where I'm  _supposed to be safest._

It's completely, utterly ridiculous for me to be angry at Eric, but, oh, out of nowhere, I am, I really am, because he was  _wrong,_ I'm not  _safe_ , and  _he is not here!_

Not here to protect me . . .

_"Don't be stupid,"_  Pam's saying now.  _"Leave while you still can. They're looking for the V, Eric."_

"The V?" I breathe. And, just in my head . . .  _Leave?_

Pam meets my eyes. Only for a second.  _"The queen set you up,"_ she says into the phone.

The door above us slams open, and that snake's voicemanages to boom, "Come out, come out –"

Pam snaps the phone shut, slips it into her waistband, and yanks me behind her.

"– wherever you are!"

Over Pam's shoulder, I see shadows coming down the staircase. Then the shadows turn into people. One of them is a big man in one of those black, short-brimmed hats I thought people didn't wear anymore. He's holding a strange little box – a cooler, I think. Yes. The lid is pulled back. Poking out of it are what look like little sticks.

The other man is the magister.

I've only ever seen him in my head. Somehow, in real life, he's more threatening. He shouldn't be – he was turned when he was older, so he's balding, and he's short, and – like in my vision – he's wearing a simple suit-and-tie as if he's a normal, human businessman. But somewhere in all of that, there's a deadliness mixed in. You just can't miss it.

Or maybe  _I_  just can't miss it.

"Magister," Pam positively  _coos_ , "What a pleasant surprise."

"Oh, there's nothing  _pleasant_ about this." He reaches into the cooler and draws one of the sticks. As he holds it up, it catches one of the sparse rays of light, and I realize it isn't a stick, exactly – it's a tube. Filled with something dark.

Pam said they were looking for the V. Obviously they've found it. Which means Eric and Pam have been  _selling_ V, and they both kept it from me. More than that, they've  _avoided_ telling me –  _Eric_ hasavoided telling me. He's had a hundred chances over the past few days, but  _no_  –

"This," the magister growls as he grips the tube, "is blasphemy."

More shoes pound against steps. Two more men, tall and muscular, appear on the staircase. With their entrance, the magister lifts his chin at Pam and me and snarls, "Take them!"

And, within seconds, we're taken.


	9. Dungeon

There's a device in the middle of the basement. Truly,  _device_ seems like a term for something smaller, a convenient tool, like a phone or a microwave, but I don't know what other word to use. This  _thing_  down here is made up of five thick, iron bars that are arranged in a circle and reach down from the ceiling, almost to the floor, ending in spikes. I have no idea what it's supposed to be for, I've never had the opportunity to think about it – the one other time I've been down here, I was focused on Lafayette, and the bars hid in the shadows.

I only notice it tonight, this thing with its spikes, because the magister's men haul Pam up and chain her to it. With chains they find in here. In our home. They force her hands above her head. They bind her legs down by the spikes, chains connecting her ankles to the bars.

I'm to the side, sitting against the damp wall, hugging my knees. I'm not far from the stairs, but it would be ridiculous to try and run – I'm human. The vampire in the hat is right beside me. He was the one who pushed me over here while the others dealt with Pam, grinning at me while he did. A couple of times he's bent over a bit to stroke my head like I'm a dog. I keep ducking away. It makes him chuckle.

_If he ends up killing you, it'll probably be after he does other things._

I take a crooked breath, my eyes blurring over for the dozenth time. I've actually only cried one tear since the magister stomped down the basement steps with his henchmen and the V, but more of them keep welling in my eyes, egged on by my heart pumping wildly in my throat, like it wants to bust out, too. And even one tear was too much. Pam hasn't cried at all, and she has it worse.

_Please don't kill her, please don't kill her . . ._

_Please don't kill me._

The two men who chained Pam up fall back from the iron bars, crossing their muscled arms and frowning like bodyguards in a movie. The magister walks up to Pam, twirling a walking stick. That night he and the queen came to Fangtasia, when I heard something clicking across the floor. That must have been the walking stick . . . Who carries something like that these days? What's the point?

The magister reaches up and unzips the top of Pam's tracksuit, revealing her tie-dye bra and tight stomach.

"Well, Magister, I applaud you your taste in kink." Pam, because she's Pam, actually  _smirks_ down at our captor. If only I didn't know her so well. If only I couldn't read her, couldn't feel all the terror, all the incredibly un-Pamlike terror bubbling beneath her skin. "But if we're being honest," she says, not a quiver in her voice, "I generally prefer to be where you're standing. I don't suppose you're up for switching places?"

"There's really no need to talk, Miss Swynford de Beaufort." The magister flips his walking stick upside down and twists its end, removing it to show inches of a different material, something that catches a little light and gleams all too happily. Silver. "You're not the target here, as I'm sure you're aware. You're just the bait." He narrows his eyes at the silver like it's an artifact that needs studying. "And the pastime."

"No," I whisper. Pam's smirk is gone. Her face is . . . stoic, I suppose. That's a good word for it.

I don't want to say the words that describe what her face does when the magister presses the walking stick's silver end against Pam's belly.

But I'll say this: As she throws her head back in agony, mouth wide, I finally learn where the scream in my vision came from.

. . . . .

My fingers are twisted in my hair, my forehead is pressed to my knees, and Pam is shrieking for the sixth time when the air in the room shifts and I hear,  _"Let them go!"_

I pull my head up. "Eric . . ."

He's steps away from me, his eyes on the magister, who is standing in front of Pam – oh, Pam, who can't hide the terror anymore, who has welts all down her chest and stomach – and looking at my guardian in a nearly-bored way.

"I am who you want!" Eric braces his shoulders as he brings his voice down, controls it more. Controls himself. Like a professional, like a businessman, like a sheriff. "But I have been framed."

I scramble towards him. I try to. The man in the hat catches me and crosses my arms over my chest, locking me there, laughing. His grip is too tight. The bones in my wrists ache.

Eric's eyes find mine, and I get a shot of fear – cold, fear's always cold – and rage, which usually burns, but not with Eric, not now. His rage is icier than his fear. But just as consuming as a fire would be.

But Eric doesn't let that show. Even as he glances up at the vampire trapping his human. Even as he he returns his attention to the vampire torturing his progeny. His jaw is set. That's the most telling sign, the only telling sign, that he's absolutely, completely ready to spill blood.

"You've been  _framed_ ," the magister repeats, dry as a dead flower. "Oh . . . 'You've got the wrong man!' . . . 'My dog ate my homework!' . . . 'I saw Goody Osbourne with the devil!' Excuses are one thing, I can assure you, that do not get better with age."

A muscle twitches beneath Eric's eye. The vampire holding me huffs out a breath, and it touches my neck, sending goosebumps across my skin.

The magister tosses a look to one of the vampires who chained up Pam. He is now standing over the little cooler, which is still halfway open, offering the tubes of V to the world. "Do you deny the Blood was being sold in your area?"

"Not on my orders," Eric says.

So . . . he didn't hide anything from me? He said he was framed . . . Someone had to have put the blood in the club,  _planted_ it, yes –

"On  _whose_  orders, then?" The magister raises his eyebrows. "Your  _queen's?"_

Eric's eyes move to the side. He says nothing.

But –  _The queen set you up._ That's what Pam said, wasn't it? Why? Why would the queen – It doesn't matter, but Eric needs to tell the magister about it, why is he  _staying quiet – ?_

"Ah." The magister trades his walking stick back and forth between his hands, circling Pam the way a predator would.  _All vampires are predators._ Eric told me that once. But he meant that humans – most humans – are prey. I thought so, at least. Vampires are never prey, they aren't  _meant_ to be prey . . . "What shall it be, Sheriff?" asks the magister. "Desecration of the blood? Or treason against your regent?"

Treason? It would be  _treason_ to save himself, to save his own, when the regent in question tried to ruin him? How is that fair, how does that make  _sense?_

But no one argues that point, no, not right now, and I imagine that it's an idea that runs deep and far back in vampire history, maybe history in general, because the magister whispers, "The most  _dire_  of crimes . . ." right before he buries the silver tip of his walking stick into Pam's chest and runs it down her flesh as easily as if she were clay, leaving a horrible, smoking tear behind, and ripping yet another awful scream from Pam –

"Stop it!" I shout as a fresh dose of her misery pulses through me, as Eric's pain creeps closer to my heart. I jerk against the cruel hands on my arms, and as the silver digs further into one of the two people in the world I love, I scream again, at the top of my lungs,  _"Stop it!"_ And at the same moment, the walking stick leaps from the magister's hand, and that's all I really see – but then there's a  _WHACK_ against the brick wall above and to the left of me, close enough that the vampire in the hat jumps away a little, jerking me with him. The walking stick clatters to the floor, close enough that I could touch it with my toe.

The room is still. I try to look back at the magister, but pain rams into my forehead and drives deep into my skull. "Oh . . ." I drop my head as my knees lose their strength. My nose starts to run . . . no, bleed. I taste the iron as it drips onto my lips.  _Stand. Stand . . ._ But my sense of balance has vanished. The vampire behind me keeps me propped up. That's the only reason I'm not on the floor. I'd rather be on the floor.

"Oh, my," I hear the magister say, though he almost sounds like an echo now, "I knew your young human was supposed to be . . . abnormal. But that was quite a trick." Something hooks under my chin and pulls my head up. A fresh jolt of pain hits my brain. "I've never liked psychics," the magister says. "They're just witches who are better at being witches . . ."

"I'm not a witch."

"Child, if you knew how many times I've heard that before." The magister rakes his thumb beneath my nose and releases me. I don't try to keep my head from falling. "Mm," he says a moment later. "Not bad. I myself have never had much of a taste for young blood, but Charles favors it. He's due for a bonus. Of course he hasn't fed on her  _yet_ , as she is still your human, but if you are, in fact, guilty of the crime I fear you have committed – well, I for one firmly believe the world could only benefit from one less . . . whatever she is."

A hand closes around my neck. The vampire keeping me on my feet. He must be Charles. I think I pull against him. I don't know. I mean to. My head hurts. I think my brain wants to be unconscious, but it just can't quite get there. I'll try, I'm trying . . .

Black, just for a moment, lovely cool nothingness, and then Pam, Pam shouting in a broken way:  _"It was Bill Compton!"_

And then Eric: "It's true, he – he's gone missing. Magister, you've seen yourself how easily he betrays our kind for personal gain. I believe he is behind this, and I am gathering evidence to bring him to you. Now let me finish my work."

Bill Compton, Bill Compton . . . I know so little about him, really. But he doesn't like Eric, no, I figured that out in Dallas, so this makes sense . . . yes, Bill Compton planted the blood. He must have. Of course.

None of the vampires speak for a bit. Or maybe for a moment I once again slip all the way into the black. Either way, the next thing I hear is the magister, speaking so softly: "They say the loss of a child is the deepest of despair."

A gasp. A short whimper. Pam.

"Two days, Mr. Northman," says the magister. "Or she dies. A  _true_  death."

Two days.  _So when do_ I _die?_ I ask from far back in my mind, so far back that there isn't even any worry there, no fight, just simple, easy curiosity.

"Allow me the human," I hear Eric say. "She is a useful tool for situations such as these, it's why I acquired her in the first place."

I don't like him using the word  _tool,_ but I also don't like that I'm awake.

"Charles," the magister says, eventually, and the hand on my neck disappears. My knees hit the floor, followed by my hands, which slap down flat like they want to leave prints. The pain from the fall comes on too slowly. And now I'm off the ground. Arms. Eric's. This is better.

Eric . . .  _Eric._  I take a handful of his shirt, and something outside of me reaches into me and says  _look over here,_ so I do, and I see Pam one more time, imprisoned and hurt and  _so scared_ and looking at Eric in a way I can't understand but which sends through me a fresh wave of hurt, of longing, and – oddly, in the midst of the other things, but it's there, absolutely – of love.

Then she's gone. They're all gone, and so is Fangtasia. The wind wraps around me and I curl into Eric, letting the black take over.


	10. The Plan

It's warm, suddenly. I never noticed it was cold, because my mind was somewhere far away, but now that it isn't cold I realize that, a second ago, it was. Or maybe that was a full minute ago. I've been in and out of this world since the basement, since  _Pam_ , since the  _magister_  . . . Keeping track of time has not been important. Sleeping, or something like it, has been important. I'm still tired . . . oh, my  _head . . ._

"Annie?" Cold fingers push hair from my face. "Annika . . ."

I'm on something soft and squishy, but unfamiliar. I make my eyes open, even though they don't want to, and squint against yellow light. The first thing I make out is Eric, sitting on the edge of the second thing I make out, the floral-patterned couch beneath me. I'm on my back, my head on a stiff armrest. "There you are . . ." Eric murmurs when he sees I'm awake, his hand falling from my head to my shoulder.

"We're at Sookie's?" I whisper. It looks different in the glow of the ceiling fan – Sookie is still in Mississippi, I assume, so Eric must have turned on the lights for my benefit, as he has done so many times before – but I recognize the living room, with its layout of antique furniture and its photographs of happy people doing happy things like weddings, and birthday parties, and gardening in the sun.

"We are. It should be safe for you." With that, he pulls up his sleeve, fangs snapping out, and bites himself. I try to push myself up, but that makes my head throb and the room tilt, so I fall back again. "Here, sweetheart." Eric's wrist drips blood from the perfect pair of dots now punched into his skin. "Drink."

I take his arm in my hands – with effort, because everything about me feels heavier than it should be – but just before I bend my head his words from before sink in.

"What do you mean, it should be safe for  _me?_ "

" _Drink_ , Annika."

So I put my lips to his wrist and begin gulping down his blood. "Good girl," Eric says, putting his free arm around me, resting his head on mine as the pain jolting through my skull begins to fade.

Vampire blood is salty and smoother than water, but more than that, it's . . . Well, you can feel the power in it, as you're taking it in. You can feel it making you better, making you  _more,_ giving you things that– as a human – you are not meant to have. It's power you aren't built for, but you're borrowing it, and,  _oh,_ it feels good, so good that it's really no wonder there's such a market for V. It's a wonder there isn't  _more_ of one . . .

"That's enough, Annie. That's enough . . ."

For a moment, my grip tightens on his wrist, but I catch myself, control myself, and snap my fingers from his skin, letting my hands fall to my lap. Eric eases his arm away, and I lick my lips and close my eyes, feeling his blood race through me like steel through copper. And Eric continues to hold me. In fact, both of his arms are around me now. It's unlike him, but this hasn't been a normal night. I press my forehead into his chest, letting the moment stretch out.

"Did they do anything to hurt you?" he asks.

"No. Just Pam."

And this is what makes him pull back. He cups my face in his hands. "I am going to get her back. Everything will be alright."

"How?" My headache is a memory, washed away by Eric's blood. The exhaustion that hit me in the dungeon, that pulled me under like a rough current, is no more – and so is the simpler, steadier exhaustion from sleep deprivation, actually. Physically, I feel like I did after I accidentally drank coffee on the plane to Dallas . . . only more so, a  _lot_ more so, and the blood still has places in my body to reach. My thoughts are spinning through my brain like leaves in autumn. "How are you going to get her back?"

"I have a plan." Eric disappears with a rush of air, I hear water running in the kitchen, and then he's back, standing behind the couch, holding out a white rag made grey with water. "You have blood on your face."

I wipe the cloth beneath my nose. It comes away smudged with red. I look up to ask Eric what his plan is, only to find him gone. A cabinet slams in the kitchen, then another, and another. I drop the rag and rise – actually, I jump up, because that's just something vampire blood makes your body want to do – and cross through the foyer, past the place where the werewolf bled out, and into the kitchen, where Eric is examining colorfully-packaged food products in a cupboard above the sink.

"It appears the kitchen is well-stocked," he says, shutting the cabinet a little too hard. He runs a hand through his hair, looking around the kitchen like it might be hiding something from him. "You should have plenty to eat while I am gone." He tugs out a drawer beside the refrigerator, scans what's inside, closes it – I hear silverware rattle as it bangs shut – and follows suit with the next drawer over.

"Why would you leave me here?"

"Where else am I to leave you? This house is safe. No vampire can enter without an invitation. Not that I expect any to come for you, but it eases my mind."

"But you told the magister you were going to use me –"

"Which got him to release you. Now I must get him to release Pam." He looks up from the drawer at the end of the counter. "You tore that cane from his hands," he says, almost to himself. "How long have you had telekinetic ability?"

That moment is foggy in my memory, honestly, but I can remember enough of it – enough of how it felt, at least – to know that saying I  _tore_  it from his hands isn't quite right.  _Tore_  is a strong word which implies, in my mind, that a decision was made with certainty to take something from someone. I didn't decide anything, with or without certainty. "That was the first time something like that ever happened."

"It was too much for you. Don't try it again, not anytime soon."

"I didn't  _try_ to do itin the first place. I just . . . It just happened."

Eric closes the drawer, and, for a moment, he seems to focus totally on me, so closely I want to squirm. Whatever ideas rush through his mind, however, he doesn't share, and then the moment is gone. He sort of shakes his head, but only once, as if tossing a thought aside. "We must discuss this, but now is not the time. I cannot find an EpiPen. Check everything for strawberries before you eat it, no matter what it is."

"Eric –"

"If there is an emergency," he continues, pointing to a tan, old-time phone stuck to the wall, "dial 911 before you call me. An ambulance will be able to reach you before I can."

"You're going to Mississippi," I blurt, if only to make sure I get all the words out before he interrupts. Or leaves.

"Yes."

"Because Bill is there." Bill Compton, damn him,  _damn him._ "Why – I don't understand, why would he frame you for selling blood?"

"He does not like me. You once told me that yourself."

"But you're his sheriff, and Sookie –"

"It is complicated, Annika, and at the moment, irrelevant. I must find him. That is all that matters."

"What are you going to do when you get to Mississippi?"

"I am going to request assistance from someone powerful."

I shake my head. "You shouldn't leave me here," I say, and I mean it with everything I have. "You should take me with you."

Even now, Eric smiles – it's the sort of smile he makes when nothing is really that funny – and huffs out a breath. "No."

"Eric!" I say, far too sharply. But it gets his attention. "I can help you!"

"I do not need your help. I need you to be here, so I am not distracted with the issue of your safety."

"I'm safest with you."

"You are safest doing as I say."

"I was doing as you said when the magister and those – those  _bastards_ came into our home and grabbed me and started torturing Pam!"

It's as if someone flips a switch in Eric's brain, a switch with two very different labels on its opposite ends, with one end reading something like  _Kind Eric,_ or  _Controlled Eric,_ or even  _Annika's Eric_.

The label on the other side would probably just read  _DANGER._

Eric's fangs shoot down. I see them well, because his lips pull back in a snarl as he takes one stride in my direction, making a terrible hissing sound not far at all from the one he made with the wolf the other night.

I can't say why I don't step back. It's not from lack of fear. Maybe it's  _due_ to fear – maybe I'm frozen, like a cornered animal, which is something I suppose I ultimately am. Or maybe it's because I can't believe Eric would ever harm me. Maybe it's something else altogether, I don't know. But I don't step back. I cross my arms, I flinch, but I don't step back.

It's over, then. Eric stops. He backs up. He turns his head. I hear his fangs slide away into their hiding places.

It gets very quiet.

"I gave you too much of my blood," he finally says. "It is making you forget yourself."

I wouldn't put it like that, no, not at all.

_But maybe that's the blood talking._

"I'm not forgetting myself," I whisper. I clear my throat before I continue, louder, "I'm right. I need to go with you."

"Enough."

"Eric, I can  _sense_  Bill!"  _Sometimes. Well, I have. Once or twice._  But if there's even  _some_  hope . . . "Not as clearly as a human, but well enough, since he's young and I know him. I can help you find him!"

"As you helped me find Godric?"

I haven't heard Eric speak that name since his return from Dallas, and now he uses it like a weapon. Logically, I know he does so because he is stressed, to say the least. He wants to correct the world, his and mine. He wants to end this conversation and move into action.

It still cuts deep.

"Godric was two thousand years old." My voice has dropped, even though I didn't mean for it to, and it may wobble a bit, but just a bit. I have it under control. "And I'd never met him."

"I know," Eric says, his voice a hundred times softer now, eyes on the floor.

"And Bill Compton is no Godric."

"On that we agree," he says, weariness in every syllable, every piece of his face. "So let us leave it there. It has been a difficult night, for you more than me, I know. I do not want to fight with you, I do not want to be angry with you, I want to rescue Pam and then lock the both of you in a box and put you in my pocket so no one can do anything like this ever again."

I gaze at my shoes. "Pam would kill you first."

"Oh, I think you both would," he replies, which may be one of the highest bits of praise he's ever given me, but I'm hardly in the mood to be proud. Or to have the subject changed, let alone shut down.

Eric comes to me and covers my shoulders with his hands. "Annika, I will save her. Everything is going to be fine."

I want to believe that. Or even just believe that he believes that. And maybe I do.

Maybe it just isn't enough.

"Eric. Take me with you."

He removes his hands from my shoulders and turns for the foyer.

"Eric! I love her, too!"

He stops. He doesn't turn around, but at least he stops.

"You have nothing to lose by taking me! I'll be with you, I'll be protected, and if I don't sense anything, I don't, but if I  _do_  – it could make all the difference! It could mean her life!" He doesn't move. But he hasn't left. I dig my fingernails into my palms and go to him, circling around so I can see his face. It gives away nothing. "Don't ask me to just sit here when there could be even the slightest chance I could help her. This is  _Pam_."

He meets my gaze. If it wasn't Eric, I'd say that his eyes look nearly pleading. But it is Eric, so I don't know exactly what I'm seeing. "I'm not afraid," I tell him.

That does nothing to change his expression.

But, after a minute: "At this place, the vampires will almost certainly understand humans only as pets or food. And we will be on their territory. You will obey me immediately and without question. If you fail to do so, even if no harm comes of it, I will punish you severely. I do not say this to frighten you. I say this because I will be taking you – at  _your_  request – to a place where some measure of your safety, and my reputation, will be in your hands, and I must believe that you will handle both of those things with the utmost care. These are not vampires who will understand or approve of the depth of my affection for you. Nor are these vampires who would face any great penalty for harming a human who belongs to another – one of them is a three-thousand-year-old king. So you will give them no reason to harm you, no reason to  _acknowledge_ you. You will be silent. You will be meek. You will speak when spoken to, and treat me as an animal treats its master. Maybe for a few hours. Maybe for longer. But if you wish to come with me, this is how it must be, regardless of how much time we are in Mississippi."

As Eric pauses, I realize I'm wringing my hands, and I make myself stop. I stare at his stomach, as I've been doing for most of his speech. "Have you changed your mind?" he asks softly.

"No." Intentionally or otherwise, Eric just told me that he agrees with me, that he knows I could help him, that bringing me along is sensical. If he didn't think so, he would have simply left, not bothering with warnings and descriptions of scary things. But he didn't. I roll my shoulders back, trying to look, if anything, bored. "I'm ready whenever you are."

He says nothing for a long time. I wait, trying to be still.

Then he's moving. But not out of the house. He passes me to get to and open a narrow door beside the stairs, packed with jackets and dirty work boots. He pulls out a thick red coat and offers it to me. "I'm sure Sookie won't mind you borrowing this."

The material feels plastic and slippery, and the coat is too big – the sleeves only allow the tips of my fingers to show – but it's warm from the inside. I zip it up, working through a catch once.

Eric takes my chin and makes me look at him. "Immediately and without question," he repeats. "Silent and meek." He rubs his thumb across my cheek once. "Please do not make me regret this, little one."

"I'm not that little, Eric," I say, fanning my fingers to dry the sweat forming on my palms. "I'm almost twelve."

He lets out a long sigh that I understand no better than the look in his eyes. I take a deep breath. Eric can hear my heartbeat, and he's had my blood, so he can sense how I feel. If I'm calm, it will let him focus better. So I'll be calm. For him, for Pam, for all of us. "You tell me to trust you," I say as he releases me. "I wish you would trust me more."

"I would not even consider this if I did not have some measure of trust in you. Do not make me regret that, either." He opens the door, letting cool, fresh air flood the room. It smells like nighttime. "Come. Let's go meet a king."


	11. The King

Eric lands on an estate, which is a strange word to use, I suppose, but it's the first word that comes to mind when I see the house. No, not house. Mansion. A mansion three stories high – four if you count the dome on top, and it has windows, so I suppose you should – with pillars down the front. A glance over my shoulder shows a long grass yard stretching behind us, although yard might not work any better than house did. Expanse. Yes. The long grass expanse of the estate. The land is bordered by rows of trees, willows, standing like cloaked guards in the night. But the real guards come a second later.

"Get behind me," Eric mutters before I even know what's going on. Then I blink and five men – vampires – surround us. Each one is dressed in black and nearly as tall as Eric – actually, one is as tall. They're all bulky. Which doesn't indicate much of anything with vampires, but, logical or not, it makes them more intimidating. I step behind Eric, who rolls his palms out to face the guards.

"State your name and your business," barks the vampire directly ahead of us, muscles bulging out of his t-shirt sleeves like they're desperate for air. The guards form a half-circle, with Eric and I at the center. No, make that a full-circle – two of them move behind us, eyes sharp and on Eric, heads lowered and hands halfway-curled, ready to grab, claw, or tear.

Predators. All vampires are predators. My getting behind Eric was pointless, I suppose.

Without so much as a nod my way, Eric calmly gives the guards want they want, his name and his business, and assures them he has no ill intentions. But they grab us anyway, acting at the same time on some signal I must have missed. Eric is almost certainly older than all of them – no thousand-year-old vampire would be working as a guard for anyone, not even a king – and he could have both of us a mile in the air, or close enough, before they could lay their hands on us. But he doesn't. That's not an option. We have to get what we came for, I know that, and I keep my mouth shut. Mostly. When one of the vampires grabs my arm, he does it so hard that I gasp. Eric hears, eyes the vampire, but stays quiet. The vampire, at least, loosens his grip. A little.

We're escorted into the mansion, over a short porch made of stone and through double doors, so fast I trip more than once, kept upright only by the guard, who doesn't notice or doesn't care that I can't quite keep up. "This is completely unnecessary," Eric says, speaking in an easy, if only slightly put-upon voice. "I told you I come in peace."

The room we're brought into – a foyer much different from Sookie's – could only belong in a mansion, could only belong to someone rich. The chandelier hanging above us makes that clear immediately. Or rather, its hundreds of glittering crystals do. At the left of the room, an impressive white staircase curls its way to the next floor. To the right of the room is an archway I can't see through, to the front of the room is an archway through which I see a dimly-lit room with furniture from another age, and in the middle of all of that is a handsome, dark vampire with slicked-back hair who turns towards us as we enter, a hand on his hip. His lilac shirt is halfway-unbuttoned, showing a strong chest covered in curling hair. His eyes, a deep brown, seem to sort of jump when he sees Eric, and he lets them travel from his head to his feet and back. "Hello." A little grin breaks over the vampire's face, and, squinting, he asks, "Have we met?" He speaks with some sort of accent, but it's slight.

"Eric Northman, Sheriff, Louisiana Area Five," Eric recites, again, just as smoothly as he did outside. Maybe more so. "I've come to see the king."

The vampire steps closer. "Talbot," he says grandly. "Royal consort."

I've read about consorts a hundred times in my books. They're companions to royalty, or at least to people of high class, sometimes their spouses but not always. Usually with opinions that matter to the people really in charge. Sometimes really in charge themselves.

But I don't think that's the case with Talbot, who says, in a voice like silk, "Permit me to facilitate," and twists to call up the stairs. "Russell!"

The man really in charge, I would guess.

"Let them go, you idiots," Talbot orders the guards. Blood rushes to my arm as it's released, and I feel a few painful tingles in my flesh. Eric folds his hands in front of him as the guards drift away. I do the same.

"Thank you," Eric says, and the vampire – Talbot – smiles at him again. There's a spark in his expression as he does so, and my instinct is to like him. But he isn't a new vampire – I can't read anything from him, at least I don't think I can. Occasionally, I've mistaken my own feelings or thoughts for things my abilities are telling me, and that can lead to all sorts of trouble. I have to assume that my urge to think of Talbot as a friend is human, not supernatural. That's safest.

He turns his head to me now, and my heart jumps. Which could just as easily be due to my being nervous as to my sensing something wrong, of course. More easily, even. "Oh." He bends at the waist to get a good look at me. "She is adorable. How old?"

I almost answer, but at the last second Talbot looks at Eric, and I remember what he told me. Here, I am a pet. Nothing more.

"Eleven. I apologize for bringing her. I had to leave Louisiana unexpectedly, and she gets nervous when left alone for too long."

"Think nothing of it." Talbot straightens, sighing. "We keep humans, but only the grown ones. Russell won't hear of a child, he doesn't want the extra work."

A smooth, southern (American-southern, that is) voice rings from above: "What I don't want is to hear you complaining when it cries in the middle of the night or makes a mess on one of your precious rugs." The man who can only be King emerges at the top of the staircase. He was maybe forty or fifty when he was turned, but his brown hair falls in his face as he takes the steps down to us, making him seem younger. Even if it didn't, I think he would wear eternal forty-or-fifty well. He's in a bathrobe – the expensive sort made of material that looks more suited for a curtain in a parlor – and he wears that well. Like true royalty.

Which is exactly what this man is. Just his entering the room has made the air change somehow. He's the sort of person who makes that happen. Like Eric. Like Godric.

But more so.

"Who is this?" He steps off the last stair, studying Eric, who ducks his head as the King takes a place beside Talbot. Should I do that, duck my head like that? Probably not. A dog wouldn't bow if he met a king.

"Eric Northman," Talbot says – purrs, really – almost directly into the King's ear. "He's a sheriff from Louisiana, Area . . . ?"

"Five," Eric provides. "Your Majesty. It is a pleasure."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Northman?" Being three thousand years old, the King's Mississippi accent is obviously not his first, but if I wasn't in the room with him, if I didn't know his age and his position, I would believe he had spent every minute of his existence in the state.

He glances down at me, and I get a chill.

There's a rule to my abilities (not a written rule, of course, there are no such things) that I've explained before, but it's important to understand: Vampires are more difficult to read than humans, and the older the vampire, the harder it is. I only pick up the occasional emotion from Eric because I know him so well, and I couldn't read Godric at all. I doubt I will be able to read anyone as old as the King of Mississippi until long after I am dead.

But, nonetheless . . . I think I can feel the King's power. Not pick up anything of use from it, but sense it radiating from him like heat from a lightbulb. And I don't like it. Maybe if it was Eric's, but it isn't, it's the power of a stranger. Whose help we need. Who may or may not offer it.

"Darling." Talbot puts his hand on the King's shoulder. "Don't be rude. We are just about to sit down for a meal," he tells Eric, indicating the archway on my right side. "Please, join us. The girl can come." He starts walking before Eric or the King can say anything else, but Eric doesn't follow until the King does, at which moment my guardian takes my shoulder, squeezes it once, and guides me after our hosts.

Talbot leads us all into a dining room that is, naturally, lavish, lit only by candles placed carefully on the long table and in holders scattered across the room. Servants lit them, I'm sure. There's no way this place doesn't have servants. In the corner is a giant device for playing records – the big music discs, I mean. It isn't a turntable, though, it's much older than that. It has a hornlike thing on top that acts as a speaker. I've seen pictures of it, I've read about it, but I can't remember the machine's name. It's playing something, though, a slow violin piece that seems, in a word, ominous.

There's a chair to the right of the room's entrance – one of its entrances, to be more accurate, it has two – and Eric changes his hold on me so he can press me into it. The cushion of the seat is thick but stiff. My feet don't touch the floor. I start to use the armrests but think better of it, letting my hands rest in my lap. I take a deep breath as Eric steps away. Breathing deeply helps slow a human's heartbeat.

The King sits at the head of the table, naturally, Talbot at his right side. Eric sits across from Talbot, with his back is to me, and almost as soon as they're all settled, a servant – a male human – hurries into the room with a platter of glasses. The glasses are a type I see all the time at Fangtasia, the sort where it seems that a funnel has been placed onto a stem. It's a glass meant for alcohol. But these hold a thick, black-looking liquid that is, of course, blood.

"Donated from a Thai boy," Talbot tells Eric as the servant places the glasses one-by-one in front of them, "who, for nearly two months, ate only blackberries. Locally grown. He was quite happy to do it; nearly all of our blood is willfully given." He smiles over to me as he says this, and I force a smile back. I don't know if that will have any affect on Talbot, but he called me adorable, so it's worth a try. That said, it might not be my best smile, because I couldn't help but notice that Talbot said nearly all of their blood is willfully given.

As the servant scurries off, Eric sips from his glass and says, "Delicious."

Talbot lights up, tracing a finger along the rim of his glass, watching Eric over the candle flames.

"Now may I ask our guest about his business with me, my beloved?" The King asks dryly, and Talbot waves a hand like a nanny giving into a whining child. The King turns his attention to Eric. "So, Mr. Northman. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"A matter most unfortunate, I'm afraid." Eric leans over his drink and speaks quietly, as if enemies may be listening in. "I humbly request permission to hunt your territory for a vampire missing from my area."

"Hmm." The King props an elbow on the armrest of his chair so his hand is by his head, which he tilts to rest on his fingers. He furrows his brows politely, but his expression stays calm, for the most part. Not surprising. It's not his area missing the vampire. "I appreciate your courtesy, Eric," he says, more-or-less cheerfully. "It's very Old World."

"Nobody has manners anymore," Talbot agrees. "It was all so beautiful once . . ." He gazes off, remembering happier times, I suppose.

The King taps the table. "Your fugitive. What's his name?"

"Bill Compton."

And it's that, it's Eric saying his name, that reaches something inside of me, deep in my gut, where only honest things live. Something that knows Bill Compton, and knows – and screams like a child waking from a nightmare – that he is here. Not in Mississippi. Not close by.

Bill Compton is in this house.

The King shakes his head at the mention of Bill's name, puffs his lips out like he's baffled, but he's lying. And there's no stopping my heart from racing now as I move my hands to my sides, pressing them into the cushion, my brain scrambling for the right thing to do. What is this? Why would Bill Compton be here, why would the King of Mississippi be housing him, just some vampire from Louisiana?

"I'm responsible for him," Eric is saying, "And . . . I'm ashamed to admit it, but he's wanted for selling vampire blood."

"Oh, no, no!" the King exclaims, and even Talbot widens his eyes, eyelashes batting, but he must know Bill is here just as well as the King does, surely, if he's the royal consort. I thought he liked Eric, I thought I liked him, but oh, I take that back now, because of course it was just human instinct, mere, dumb human instinct . . . Damn it, damn it . . . My feet find the floor. They have to – I have to, I have to stand, even though every instinct is telling me not to.

"Well, that's heinous," the King says, just as I'm touching Eric's arm. He doesn't seem to notice. He should be able to feel what I'm feeling, my sudden rush of fear, but sometimes when he's focused on other things he doesn't pick up my emotions right away. Now is one of those unfortunate, troublesome times.

"I wish I would have found out sooner," he tells the King, "but I did not expect such an act from him."

I take a handful of Eric's jacket, horribly aware that the only thing I can do is speak to him in Swedish, which the King, being as old as he is and from who-knows-where, might understand perfectly. At that point, he would not only know what I'm telling Eric, but also that I'm psychic, which Eric doesn't like strangers to know –

Eric's hand is around my wrist like a snake striking my arm. Clamping onto it almost as tightly as the vampire guard did, he hisses, "You were told to sit," and lets me go, but with a small shake that makes me stumble a little. He gives me a look full of a dozen different warnings – maybe ten of them threatening, two of them kind – before turning back to the King.

I return to my chair, making an effort to not drag my feet. What else can I do? I sit with my head down and my hands, once again, in my lap. Well, one hand. I use the other to rub my wrist.

"I apologize," I hear Eric say. "As I was saying, Compton's transgression . . . caught me by surprise. But he is guilty."

There's a surge in my stomach, from that thing that knows Bill. I grip the edge of my seat as the thing goes wild, like a watchdog who can't understand why no one is listening to it.

"Are you sure?" The King asks. "Let's ask him." And Bill Compton walks into the room, so close I could touch him. Or kick him.

"Voila," Talbot says. "He's not missing, and he's way too square to deal V."

"You tried to pin that on me?" Bill scans the room, even meets my eyes – does he frown a little, or do I imagine that? – before placing a hand on the back of one of the dining chairs and regarding Eric, who looks at me at the same time I look at him, understanding, I think, why I bothered him. I give a tiny shrug. He swallows, I can tell from the way his throat moves.

"We all know it's your queen behind this, Northman." More than anything, the King of Mississippi sounds bored.

"And that you did the selling for her," Bill adds. I must have been imagining that frown I thought he had when he saw me, yes, certainly, because now he wears a smug little smile, and there's no switching from one to the other that easily.

That's not true. Eric can put on ten different masks in the span of a minute, and you know it.

Well, of course he can. Eric is brilliant at deception. I don't remember a time when I didn't know that. But I thought I was special in that area. I thought he didn't do that with me. But I was wrong, wasn't I? Naïve. So, so naïve. Not on my orders, Eric told the magister back in the basement when asked about the blood being sold. And how had the magister replied?

On whose orders, then? Your queen's?

He'd known. The magister had known, he thought he had Eric all but caught and was playing with him like a cat with a mouse. And so Eric had lied. Which I understand completely, which I support with all my heart – but before the magister had Pam, long before, and in the time since, Eric lied to me. Or avoided the truth, at the very least, which he would have called a lie had it been my action, not his. And he would have been furious with me. I don't know if he would have been hurt. But I am.

"You see," the King says, with the air of an actor taking the stage. He's enjoying himself, this powerful, powerful man in a bathrobe. "Mr. Compton has accepted a position in my court, and therefore keeps nothing from me."

"Oh?" I think Eric turns to Bill, I don't know, I won't look at him. If only because tears are pushing against the back of my eyes, hot tears, made from anger more than anything else.

Alright, maybe a little fear.

"You're here of your own accord," Eric says to Bill in the tone one friend uses with another. "Which means . . ."

After a moment, Bill finishes for him. "Sookie is no longer mine."

His words bring with them – to me, anyway – a rush of his emotions, more than I'm used to getting from a vampire. I flinch, because although there's a mix of feelings – nobody ever feels just one thing at one time, if you want to know the truth – the best way I can describe the sensation is loss. Like what Bill is really sending my way is a magic spell that tears away some inner piece of me, a crucial piece. But it lasts for just a moment, and then I'm me again, whole. Hurt, frightened, and mad, but all there.

"Hm," is all Eric says back to Bill.

Sookie . . . Eric wanted to know about Sookie. In the middle of this, caught red-handed by a king, Eric thought to ask after a waitress, an employee?

He wants her. I asked him if that was the case once, back in Dallas, and he told me no. Well, not exactly, but . . . I thought that's what he meant.

Another lie. Something as good as a lie. Deception is deception, and Eric is an expert at it.

From the far side of the room come some mutterings between Talbot and the King, and they laugh together. I hate them in that moment.

"Your Majesty," I hear Eric say, solemnly, once they have quieted. "I confess . . . I sold the blood at my queen's command and accused Bill to protect her. So what do I do now? Unless I give the magister Compton, he'll murder my progeny."

Who also lied to me.

With that thought, all the anger, all the betrayal inside of me is flooded by shame and self-loathing. Which doesn't wash the anger and the betrayal away – it just makes me feel twice as bad.

"Darling," Talbot whispers, I imagine to the King, "So sad."

Is that genuine? Does he like Eric after all?

The King groans – in a growling way – and when he speaks, I realize he's stood, and I peek up at him. "The magister . . . A nasty little anachronistic toad, a ridiculous remnant of the Middle Ages. The only power he has over us is the power we give him." He looks off into the distance, then, like Eric does all the time when he's thinking. "There may be a way to solve all our problems." He whips his head back to Eric, eyes narrowed. "Sleep here."

Talbot reaches across the table, not quite touching Eric but coming close. "You're more than welcome."

"How can I refuse?" Eric says, and just like that, none of us – none of them, I should say – are enemies. Except maybe Eric and Bill. Vampires, I think bitterly – if you can think in any special way – feeling more like an outsider to my own life than I have in a long time.

I let my hands relax, though, because at least we're safe. True, we're spending the night in a place I don't know, a place that belongs to other vampires, but Eric and I are currently unharmed. I feel the muscles loosen all the way up in my shoulders, and I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. When I look up again, Eric is back to sipping blood from his glass. Like all is well. Like all has been well since the beginning of time.

. . . . .

Talbot shows Eric and me upstairs to a bedroom with a full- or queen-sized bed draped in maroon blankets and held in place by a grand wooden headboard engraved with twists and turns. I strip off Sookie's coat and sit silently on the bed's edge as Talbot points out the bathroom door and explains to Eric – who appears to hang on every word – that the dresser in the corner of the bedroom once belonged to a Russian nobleman and that the candlesticks dotting the wall date back to the fourteenth century. He adds that servants will be at Eric's beck-and-call should he need anything. Eric thanks him in a low voice and they share a smile before Talbot slips out the door. As soon as it shuts behind him, Eric's smile falls away, revealing the grimace I imagine he's been hiding for some time.

I spring to my feet. "I tried to tell you –"

"Shh!" He holds up a hand, and I press my lips together as he listens to, as far as my human ears can tell, nothing. Ten or fifteen seconds pass. "The walls are muffled," he tells me. "But keep your voice down. I know you tried to tell me, Annika." He rubs his hands over his face and through his hair as he walks around the bed, just to walk, I think. One blonde strand falls into his eyes. I watch him, all sorts of feelings bubbling in my stomach. Most of them are mine. There are humans in the house, I can feel their presence, but they're strangers who I'm not trying to read, so anything I sense from them is minimal. And there's . . . something odd inside this house, something neither good nor bad ringing through the walls and through me like a plucked string, but that could be anything and, frankly, I don't care to wonder about it now. Like I said, most of what I am feeling is me, and me alone, and it's a lot to feel – fear, for one thing, but also an ache I haven't felt since I left Sweden. Homesickness. Just for a different home this time. And then there's simple, raw hurt, which I can blame – and do, in fact, blame – on Eric. And there's anger. Which I also blame on him.

"You lied to me," I say to his back, as some distant part of me mumbles that I'm still reacting to Eric's blood and should be cautious. But mumbles are easily ignored. "About selling V. You let me think you didn't know who was doing it, and then you let me think it was Bill. You made me think that."

Eric half-turns towards me, which is enough for me to see his clenched teeth as he speaks. "For the hundredth time. There are things I do that you do not need to know about."

"This affected me!"

"Everything I do affects you. You are being ridiculous. And speak. Quieter."

I step towards him, almost shaking from – all sorts of things. I try to whisper, I really do, but it's a struggle. There is a lot in me that wants to get out. "You didn't just keep me from knowing about this. You lied! In – in the ice cream shop, I said you had to give the magister the vampire who was selling blood, and you said that was right –"

"I said I would give the magister results, which I planned to."

"At Sookie's, after we left the club, after the magister accused you – and he was right, but I ignored him and believed you –"

"We are not discussing this now."

Stop talking, Annika, stop talking – this is Eric's blood making you stupid, stop it, stop talking –

"– I asked why Bill would frame you." My eyes start to burn with those angry tears again. "I knew it didn't make sense, not really, I asked that and you said he didn't like you –"

"Annika –"

"– and that it was complicated. You let me go on thinking he had framed you, and if it had been me, you know you would have said that was as good as a lie, it was a lie, you lied to me!"

"And it was far from the first time, and it will not be the last!"

He faces me fully now, his shoulders tight, his eyes on fire. He would be yelling if he could, I see that instantly, and I hug myself as all my passion drains away. I should have stopped talking. "We are not equals! I demand total honesty from you because you are a human child and you are mine. You may demand nothing of me, because I owe you nothing! And I have much more pressing matters to deal with at the moment than your hurt feelings, so just be quiet, you little fool!"

I hold up quite well, I think, until those last three words. Stoically, even, like Pam after the magister had her chained up and before he started hurting her. But those last three words, they cut through me, cut through whatever shield I had up as easily as if it were paper, and cause something inside of me to crumble like a dry sandcastle. I clamp my hands over my mouth, which I don't think I've ever done when upset, but I'm afraid of the sounds that might come out of me if I don't.

I don't run into the bathroom. Even feeling like this, my pride won't let me do that. But I walk quickly, as quickly as my confused brain thinks I can walk without it looking like running, as the hot tears that have been fighting for freedom finally win and flood my eyes.

"Annika," I hear Eric say, but I close the door behind me anyway. There's a lock and I turn it. I hear nothing else from the bedroom.

In the room's center is a clawfoot bathtub big enough for five of me. I fumble at the handle, holding my breath, until water gushes from the faucet and onto the porcelain below, making that mild bathtub-water roar. Then I grab at one of the rich-red towels hanging on a brass bar by the tub, yank it down, and sink to the floor with my face pressed to it.

I cry.


	12. Humming

Some time later, when I'm numb and empty but at least not sobbing uncontrollably, I sit on the tub's edge, splash my face with cold water, and twist off the faucet before resting my head in my hands. My eyes feel like balloons against my damp palms. The towel I keep draped over my legs, still folded, if disheveled and tearstained.

Not thirty seconds after the water stops running, I hear from the other side of the door: "Annika. Come out."

My throat closes again. I bring my fists down on the towel. Just because I couldn't cry anymore doesn't mean I'm ready to talk to Eric. I would have left the water running if I'd known he'd want to speak the moment I turned it off.

The doorknob turns but meets the lock's resistance. "None of our problems will be solved by my breaking down the door." Eric sounds nothing if not tired. "Come out."

I push my face into the towel one more time before placing it on the floor. I wipe my hands over my already-dry cheeks as I rise. When I open the door, I keep my shoes rooted on the smooth tile in here and stare at Eric's on the dark carpet out there. His shoes are leather and mine are whatever sneakers are made of. They're nice sneakers, gleaming blue Converse, but I have no doubt the ones on his feet cost a great deal more. I wonder if he would buy me shoes that nice if I asked.

"You are not a fool," he says. "If there is one true thing in the world, it is that."

Kind words. Nonetheless, I keep my swollen eyes down and my hand on the knob, as if I could actually close the door on Eric if he wasn't willing to allow it.

"I am frustrated," he continues, each word careful. "I did not mean to take it out on you."

I press against the doorframe, just my body at first, then my head. When I speak, I do so slowly, double-checking each word before I let it go, each of them crackling like fire kindling. "You told me trust you to tell me what I needed to know, and to not tell me the other things. I told you I do, and I meant it. But I just . . ." I sniff. God, I don't want to start crying again. Eric has already seen me cry too often in the past few weeks. He's never shamed me for crying, not once in my life, but I know it must seem weak to him, it has to. "I just . . . I thought that if you didn't want me to know something, you would tell me that. Tell me that you didn't want me to know it. I didn't think you would . . . make me believe something that wasn't true." I don't want to say  _lie_ again. That word has done me no favors tonight. "Because believing something that isn't true . . .  _that_ makes me feel like a fool."

As I finish, I trace my toe along the line where the tile and the carpet meet, and from the corner of my eye I see Eric raise his hand to touch my head.

I pull away.

I don't decide to do so, I truly don't. Had I thought about it, I would have stood still, no matter what my feelings deep inside. But . . . those feelings deep inside made a choice for the rest of me. I know Eric took back his words, at least the  _you little fool_ part, and I know I'm the one who asked to come to Mississippi in the first place, I know, I know, I know –

But feelings are feelings. And I may have been childish – I know I was – but he was mean. Eric's hand falls and dangles by his hip.

His next words are short. "See what you can use in there to get ready for bed." He indicates the bathroom. "It will be dawn soon, you need sleep."

He turns away, and I close myself in the bathroom once more, stepping to the marble sink, placing my hands on either side of it, and taking deep breaths as quietly as I can. I stare at myself in the mirror, a pale little girl. I could carry luggage in the bags beneath my eyes. I would have thought Eric's blood had taken care of those, but no. After all, I just had a few sips. I'm already simmering down, I feel it, and it's not pleasant. Or maybe that's just everything else in the world being so very  _not_ pleasant.

I don't look in the mirror for long. I don't like how I look right now.

_You little fool._

The huge cabinet beside the sink turns out to be well-stocked with human things – two types of toothpaste, for instance, and a small box with covered toothbrushes placed inside like jewelry. The handles are made of what I think is ivory, which seems rather ridiculous, but rich people do ridiculous things, buy ridiculous things. Even Eric isn't immune to that. He once bought a baby because of the potentially great power she was supposedto have.

_Some good it's done._

I finish with my teeth and dip my head to the sink, scrubbing my face with a fruity wash filled with sharp beads. I'm halfway through that job, my face dripping with suds, when a wave – an echo – reaches me from far away, pulsing through my body like I have no resistance whatsoever and paralyzing me totally.

It comes from Pam, and it's terror. Pure, consuming terror, undoubtedly hers, as distinctive as her voice. An image flashes in my mind like a picture lit by lightning. I brace myself against the counter, gasping as I see her head twist back in that horrid way, her mouth opening wider than anyone's should to release a scream, oh, that scream – how could I have ever not known it was hers?

It all vanishes as quickly as it came, the feeling, the image, but I feel like some part of me goes with it.

Trembling, I rinse my face and try to brush my hair with a wide-tooth wooden comb, but I only run it through my tangles three times before returning it to the cabinet. The shaking is too much. For the second time tonight, I sit on the edge of the tub, but I don't reach for the towel or the faucet. That would be like welcoming myself to cry, and I don't want to cry, not  _again_. But I know that Eric would know something was wrong if he saw me. And even if he didn't, I wouldn't want to risk talking to him. So I stay in here.

Unfortunately, getting one taste of Pam's night seems to have opened the floodgates. For the next half-hour – at least a half-hour – I sit with my hands clasped as jolt after jolt of Pam's pain comes at me from across state lines. I don't see her every time. But when I do, it's every bit as bad as that first flash. Pam – tough, take-no-shit Pam – screeching and writhing. Helpless. With red tears streaking down her face.

Then it stops. Was my connection cut off for some reason? Did the magister get tired?

No . . . It's more than that. The air around me feels a little calmer. Like someone turned a volume knob one dial down.

I tiptoe to the bathroom door and open it just wide enough to see into the bedroom. The light Talbot turned on when he brought us here is a stained-glass thing on the ceiling, but it's off now. Instead, an old-fashioned glass lamp is glowing from one of the bedside tables. Eric is on the bed's other side, the side closest to the door, his hands folded on his stomach. His eyes are closed.

Dawn's arrived. He's dead for the day. So is Pam, and, blessedly, so is the magister.

I turn off the bathroom light and walk to the bed, not bothering to be light-footed. I wrestle my feet from my shoes using the toe-to-heel method, because bending down to untie them seems like too much effort. I don't notice the rearrangement in furniture until I'm pulling back the bedspread. The dresser has been moved from the wall to the door. As in, directly in front of it. Blocking it. But why would Eric do that? I suppose the dresser would keep a human out, and that's the only creature that could potentially come for us at some point in the next ten hours –

_Except for wolves._

Wolves. Werewolves. Bill Compton was taken by werewolves, and now he's here, with the King. So it stands to reason that the King has more under his employ than bulky vampires and submissive humans.

But a werewolf, if I understand them correctly, could get past one dresser. So could enough humans, for that matter, so –

Ah. The dresser isn't for keeping things out. It's for keeping  _me_ in.

I slide under the covers. It's not a bad idea, the dresser. I can't be sleepwalking here. But I don't like being trapped inside a room. Then again, I'm trapped inside a mansion. I guess going one step further doesn't make much of a difference.

I twist a key-shaped knob on the base of the lamp, and it sucks all the light away. There are no windows, so the darkness is pure and thick. It's the same sort of darkness I sleep in every day in my bedroom, so it shouldn't feel so lonely now, especially with Eric right here.

And yet.

. . . . .

My wake-up call the next evening is a loud knock on the door that has me upright in bed, blood pumping, before I'm fully conscious. Eric – who may or may not have already been up and pacing – switches on the overhead light, shoves aside the dresser, and opens the door to find a servant, who greets him with a calm "Good evening, sir" before handing him two black drawstring bags. He explains that each bag has a change of clothes for us, and if we'll put our own clothes in the bags and leave them outside the door, they will be washed for us in a timely manner. He then relays  _Master_ Talbot's request that Eric breakfast with him.

When he's gone, Eric drop the bags on the bed and opens them both. I bring my legs out from under the covers but pull them to me, watching him, our conversations from last night – the heated one and the cold one – playing softly in my head.

"They brought you a robe," he says, still peering in one of the bags. "I doubt they have clothes your size anywhere in the house."

"Because the King doesn't let Talbot  _keep_  children," I say quietly.

"I told you what to expect from this place."

"I know you did. I'm just repeating what I heard."

"Go change."

I emerge from the bathroom two minutes later in a burgundy robe that reaches my shins but which, I think, is supposed to reach the knees. "That's a good color on you," Eric says as I drop the bag, now stuffed with my clothes, beside the door. He's changed into a light blue, long-sleeve shirt that brings out his eyes and is tight enough to show his every muscle.

I rub the robe's collar. "The material's soft." That's all I can think of to say. I sit on the end of the bed, sliding my hands into my new pockets. "Are you going to have breakfast with Talbot?"

"Yes."

"What about the King?"

"What about him – dear?" He adds  _dear_ like a stamp on an envelope because the  _What about him_ part sounded too terse on its own. He tried to change it, at least, but it doesn't get past me. Still, I push on, because this is important – he said so last night, with that  _more pressing matters_ remark, which was absolutely correct, but . . . well, he said it like he said it and he said other things, too.

"The King told you he had a way to fix all of our problems," I say, "so what are you –  _Mmph._ " I slap my hand on my chest as a fresh shot of fear hits me, courtesy of Pamela Swynford de Beaufort and the evil man who has her. Four pricks of pain inform me that my fingernails have planted themselves in my skin.

"Annika? What is it?"

I roll my fingers flat. Maybe there won't be blood. "Pam. The magister's hurting her."  _Please, please, don't let this go on all day,_ I beg anyone who might listen, even though I don't believe in God.  _Don't let him keep hurting her. Don't let me keep feeling this, I don't want to . . ._

_. . . You selfish little brat._

I move my hand to my knee, squeezing the bone there. "Do you think he'll help her?" I sound like I just came up from being underwater for a long time. "The King?"

"He is clearly no friend to the magister," Eric says quietly. "If I help him achieve his ends, I believe that will also lead to Pam's release." I think he might move forward, towards me, but he never gets here, so maybe I imagined it. "She is stronger than you know, Annika. She can endure anything he does to her, I assure you, and she will not have to endure it for long."

I say nothing. Eric knows Pam better than I, but he isn't feeling what I'm feeling. He didn't see what I kept seeing last night. The agony on her face.

Eric takes the bag with his clothes, goes to the door, picks up the bag with mine. "I'm going now. I'll see about having food brought to you . . . I know you must be starving. I'll try to check on you soon, and if I am able, I'll bring you a book or something. In the meantime, perhaps you could draw a bath. You used to soak for hours in Sweden. It would be good for you, and provide an excellent opportunity to review your plans for world domination."

He's trying to make me smile, with that last part. But I don't have it in me. He understands that, or simply gives up. Either way, he doesn't try again, just says – orders – "Do not leave the room."

"I understand," I say, and just like when he said  _What about him,_ my words are slightly too sharp.

I hear him sigh. "You had better, girl." Then he's gone.

After the door closes, I count to five before twisting and throwing myself at the pillow I slept on – fitfully – throughout the day. "Ugh!" I pound the pillow with one fist, then my other fist, and keep going like that – "Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! _Ugh!"_ – before collapsing and flopping onto my back, huffing air at a ceiling I'm sure was transplanted from the house of some dead duchess or her cousin or her  _dog._

It is in this moment that I notice the buzzing – no, it's more of a hum, like an engine – just below my ribcage. It's that  _something_  in the house that I felt last night. The neither-good-nor-bad-but-odd something that prodded me – and is prodding me again – in a way that, for whatever reason, makes me recall how my rabbit Beowulf would bat at me with his paws when he wanted my attention.

Beowulf. My sweet boy, my dearest friend, whom I had to leave in Öland when  _Eric_  decided I should come live in Louisiana instead. I had no say in that move. No, Eric told me he knew best and to trust him, trust him,  _trust him._

"I don't know what you want," I tell the humming in my stomach. "I don't know what you  _are."_

It hums on, like a giant, silent bee.

I do take a bath, but only because I like to be clean. I don't soak, I don't try to relax, I don't review anything. The good news is that I don't feel anything else from Pam. Of course, I didn't feel anything from her until just before dawn last night, and I doubt the magister took a break from torturing her until then. The more likely explanation is that my abilities are half-formed and more than half-useless.

_There's not even a point to my being here._  I rinse my hair, the soapy water burning my eyes.  _I came to help look for Bill. We found him. Now what?_

Now Eric appeals to a King, I suppose. I turn off the water. Almost the instant I do, a  _BUMBUMBUMBUM_ comes through the walls, making me jump – again. Someone is knocking. I scramble out of the tub, almost slipping in the process, and wrap the robe around my still-wet body. But by the time I'm in the bedroom and opening the door, no one is in the hallway. At my feet, though, is a bronze plate with a lid. My mouth begins to water, and I snatch up the plate and bring it into the room, closing the door with my foot and lifting the lid . . . to reveal a bowl of plump, shining strawberries.

I slam the lid back into place. My first thought is to return the plate to where I found it, safely outside of the door, but that might be insulting, yes? So I leave it in the corner as if it were a naughty child, my stomach growling all the while. It's like a bad joke . . . I stomp into the bathroom, where I plunge my hands into the tub's draining water. I don't think anything from the strawberries got on my skin, but that's not a risk worth taking. I've come into contact with strawberries three times in my life. The first time I can't remember. The second and third time, on the other hand, I recall quite well, and the last thing I need today –  _the last thing_ Eric _needs today_ , I can't help but think – is my nearly dying at the hands of a fruit.

As I stand, shaking water droplets from my arms, a sob I didn't see coming jerks at my throat. "No!" My vision starts to blur even I speak, and I make for the sink, where I slam my hands on the marble, glaring at my red-eyed self in the mirror. "No! Pull yourself together! You've cried enough, you little –" I press my lips tight. "Don't," I demand of my reflection, wet hair dangling between us. "Don't. No more crying. Be strong."

And, in the end, I suppose I am. I bend over the counter until the tears and the sobs waiting in my gut have dissolved, leaving behind nothing but a very empty stomach. And that damn humming.

You know what?

"Fine," I growl at the humming. "Fine."

I march into the bedroom and jump on the mattress, crossing my legs and settling myself against the pillows. I rest my hands in my lap. "Tell me what you are, then," I order the humming, and I focus.

My life as a psychic is largely about noticing and interpreting things that come to me whether I want them to or not. My role is, generally, quite passive. I know, mostly from reading books and articles Eric has given me on the subject, that some grown psychics – those who have really come into their power – can use their abilities at will, at least to an extent. And, yes, I can sometimes do that. Kind of. Like what I did with the magister's walking stick. That wasn't my  _conscious_ will, sure, but . . . it was some part of me reaching out and forcing the world to give me what I wanted.

And that's sort of in-line with what I'm trying now. I give all my attention to the humming inside of me – or, rather, the humming of the thing in the house that happens to be humming through me, too. It's strange – like I said, it isn't bad, I'm not frightened by it, but I can't quite call it  _good,_ it's . . . it's something more complicated than good-or-bad. And now that I'm trying to read it, I recognize it, in a way – I mean, I recognize the feeling it gives me. It's like the feeling I get from Sookie, the feeling I got from Lafayette when we gave him his car, how waves from them match with waves of my own, because they're all waves that started with Eric. But it can't be about Eric, this thing in this mansion, how could it be? Eric would have mentioned if he had any connection to the King before we came here last night, and neither the King nor Talbot recognized him when we arrived. So this place shouldn't have anything that is connected to Eric in a fundamental way, the way his blood is.

Still . . .

_Just focus._

I let the humming have me, let it work into me. Or maybe I work into it. Either way, soon enough my shoulders are humming, too, then my thighs . . . And it's soothing, isn't it? It's . . . it's like  _Eric_ , so it's soothing –

_– But it's_ not _Eric, it can't be anything related to Eric, that makes no sense –_

The humming drowns out my mind, with all its rapid little thoughts, and I'm happy for that. Into my arms, hands, calves, feet, toes . . . humming. Nothing like this has ever happened before, but I'm not afraid, no, on the contrary – I feel at peace. The humming increases in my legs, sort of swelling and pressing, until they're hanging off the bed. When my bare feet touch the ground, a pleasant tingling flows up through my body. That keeps happening with every step, and the closer I get to the door, the – the  _warmer_  the humming is, because I'm doing what I'm supposed to, and it's happy with me, it – it feels like when Eric is happy with me. It feels like Sweden. Being little and being in Sweden. Falling asleep in Eric's lap in front of the library fireplace, one arm around a doll and one arm around him, totally content, and safe, and at home . . .


	13. Certainly Not My Way

I pause once in the hallway, because the humming tells me to. It fills my feet – imagine water being poured into your shoes, bubbling water – and doesn't stop until I'm still. I'm at a corner when this happens, and I wait, perfectly happy to do so, and I understand a moment later why this happened: Two men are muttering just around the corner, two men whose voices I don't recognize but who mutter and mutter – I don't pay attention to what about, I don't care – and before moving away on what can only be booted feet,  _clomp, clomp, clomp_. A minute passes, and then the humming draws me forward again. I feel like I'm floating as I turn the corner and walk down the hallway, past dramatic portraits and relics on shelves. The humming is in charge of me, like a current would be, taking me wherever it cares to, and that's lovely, lovely . . . It's nice not to have to make decisions, or doubt anything, myself or otherwise. Right now, I worry about  _nothing_ , because the humming – or, whatever the humming belongs to – knows exactly what to do. Knows exactly what  _I_ should do.

I walk down the staircase and into the foyer. Two servants, both male, hurry past me and spare me looks, but neither stop. From the foyer into an empty sitting room with velvet on the chairs and a grandfather clock as tall as Eric . . . then into an office. The desk is bigger than Eric's, but the room is bigger, too, it's a proper office . . . Really, it's a study. Yes, like Eric's study in Öland. Öland. Why did I ever have to leave Öland?

The humming concentrates itself in my chest, swarming happily, and then tugs me forward, towards the desk. No. Towards what's behind it. A cabinet, of sorts. Giant, as wide as the desk, and at least two meters tall, probably more. Instead of wood or glass, the cabinet's doors are made of a sort of metal mesh, so I can see everything it holds, all sorts of things that glimmer in that special way only old treasures can.

My eyes lock on a piece of gleaming gold, and my insides surge.

I go to the cabinet and open it. The doors fall away from what they guard like they were just waiting for my say-so. Oh, the humming, the humming gets so strong – waves of pure approval, waves of  _certainty . . ._ and waves of that unmistakable, irreplaceable feeling of home as I gaze up at the golden crown that, I understand instantly, is the  _something_  that found its way into my head. The something doing all the humming. The something that wants my attention like my old rabbit Beowulf.

It isn't a dramatic sort of crown, no jewels, no spikes – just a band of dark gold about the same width as my hand, curving into a V-shape at its center, but that's the extent of the decoration. Oh, but it's lovely despite the simplicity, maybe because of it. It's a crown made for someone who isn't afraid to get dirty, to do the hard work themselves, to fight. I love it immediately and with all my heart. And it hums, and hums, and hums, and tells me to touch it, so I do, my hand perfectly steady as I reach out and lay my fingers on the gold. And my mind is overtaken.

. . . . .

A man with long hair and a long beard, older but not old, wearing the golden crown. Standing at the head of a crowded table, shouting gleefully in a language I can't understand before falling back in his chair, grinning as the people around him, all dressed in furs and leather, laugh and shout back. He reaches out and takes the shoulder of the man beside him – Eric. Not  _my_ Eric, but Eric, living Eric,  _really_ living – human. He smiles at the man in the crown and rips some meat from a bone with his teeth. His skin seems ruddy, but that's just because it has hot blood running beneath it.

I try to go to him, because all I want to know is what Eric Northman's heartbeat sounded like long before he was Eric Northman, but that's when I discover I have no feet here, indeed, no body, and anyway, the room has changed, emptied. Now it's just the man in the crown at end of the table with a woman about his age. She's rocking a baby, cooing at it, and he's watching with a little smile, seemingly half-asleep. And Eric,  _human_ Eric, joins them, and says words I don't know, words that make the woman lift her eyebrows and speak dryly, and he grins at her – oh, he looks so  _young_ – and gazes down at the baby, and the man in the crown laughs for no reason I know, and it's wonderful, yes, so very much, but something isn't right, is it? Something – something is coming, and –

. . . . .

My hand is yanked from the crown.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" someone screeches as Eric drags me from the cabinet. "Do you have any idea how valuable those things are?" Talbot stands just beyond the desk, his hands on his hips. Gone is the vampire who called me  _adorable._

And, in this horrible moment, I understand why. I look back to the crown, that telling crown, which is no longer giving me a single vibration. The humming is gone. The crown gave me what it needed to give me, and now I am on my own. Left to pay for  _its_ sins.

"I didn't –" I turn to Eric, who still has my wrist in his unforgiving grip. "Eric, I swear, I didn't mean to . . ."

But Eric isn't listening. He's seen the crown.

"You didn't  _mean_ to?" Talbot repeats.

"I didn't, I –" But what am I to say?  _I'm psychic_   _and that crown all but hypnotized me into coming down here. Cross my heart._ "Eric . . ." I hook my hand around his wrist, because his fingers are tightening on my arm. "Eric, please, that hurts . . ."

His hand opens stiffly, like a steel trap letting loose, and I step back, shaking my head at him, ready to plead, but he's still staring at the crown, so I address Talbot. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . . I didn't . . ." But there are no words. None that can guarantee my safety. And Eric's.

"Speak, you idiot child!" Talbot snaps, making me flinch. "You wander around my home and put your grubby hands on artifacts one hundred times your age and two hundred times your value? Hmph!" His eyes flash to Eric, and he crosses his arms. "Is this how all Louisiana vampires handle their humans? Or is it just the sheriffs?"

Eric closes the cabinet doors, so softly they don't make a sound. "I can't speak for all of them," he tells Talbot, stepping towards me, "but it is certainly not my way."

He hits me across the face, snapping my head to the side with such force that I don't realize I've lost my footing until I'm on the ground, my right wrist wrenched beneath me. "How dare you shame me like this?" Eric hisses from above. I don't answer him, I don't look up at him, I don't move. I can't. I stay on my knees, supporting myself on my screaming wrist, my damp hair hanging around me as the left side of my face tries to understand what just happened to it.

"I am so deeply sorry," I hear Eric whisper to Talbot. "She is normally quite well-behaved, I never would have expected this from her. But you have my word that she will do nothing like this again for the remainder of my stay. I will make sure of it."

A deep sort of sting is settling into my face, especially in the corner of my lip and my cheekbone, as Talbot heaves a sigh. "It's  _fine_. All she was touching was that . . . random tribal crown, there were a hundred of them. Oh – I overreacted, Eric. I apologize."

"Please. My human was out of line, there is no excuse. I will take her back to my room immediately for proper . . . chastisement."

"Don't be silly, you've barely seen half the collection. There's no reason to let this ruin the tour. Send her back, deal with her later."

" . . . As you wish."

The next instant, Eric has hold of my arm and is pulling me to my feet, drawing a whining sort of sound from me that I don't mean to make, that I've never made in my life. An inhuman sound. "Return to the room.  _Now._  We will discuss this at length, I assure you of that." He flings my arm away, causing me to trip towards the door, but I don't fall, no, I stay upright and walk out of the study and through the sitting room and through the foyer and up the stairs, chased by the sounds of Eric and Talbot's laughter.

No humming to guide me this time. I'm all on my own. Down the hallway. Past a tall female vampire who frowns at me and may speak, not sure, can't understand – through the bedroom door I go, into the place where Eric and I slept, just a vampire and his human. I reach to touch my face but decide it would be better to just lie down, so I go for the bed, but collapse against the wall and sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around my head and hiding in them, my arms and my hair, hiding and shaking, shaking like I never have before, and that's how I stay until later, some point later, when the door opens and my guardian comes in to deliver proper chastisement.


	14. Broken

My arms unwrap from my head and my feet catch on the carpet as Eric rounds the bed and comes for me. I push myself farther into the corner of the room, and he stops.

"Don't do that," he says, and I don't move anymore. The bed is in front of me, my shoes waiting beneath it, where I took them off last night. I imagine putting them on. Running. How laughable. As if I could run from him. But that's why my body is trembling so much – it wants to run. It's a natural reaction,  _fight-or-flight_ , my body giving me all sorts of chemicals so that, one way or the other, I can react to the threat. What my body doesn't understand is that I  _can't_. Not in any useful way, not when the threat is a vampire. I am entirely at his mercy. I am helpless.

So I sit in a borrowed robe on the floor, trembling and staring at my shoes.

Eric starts to whisper.

"It was the only option I saw in the moment. There was no satisfactory explanation you could have given Talbot. I did what I felt would appease him, what I felt would deter his suspicion, while . . . causing the least harm possible."

I don't know what he wants me to say so I'm quiet.

Eric exhales. The breath is crooked, sharp, and I can practically  _hear_ his teeth clench. "You should not have even been out of this room. I  _told_ you to stay in here, I – I know you sensed the crown, that much is clear, but you could have  _waited_ , Annika, and then told me about it, like you are  _supposed_ to, why couldn't you have just  _waited_?"

He takes a stride forward, fast, and I cover my head again, curling my body away from him. "I couldn't help it! I couldn't help it, I swear,  _please,_ I couldn't help it, I had no control, I just followed it – the humming, the crown, it made me come to it, I couldn't help it, please –"

"Annie –"

I feel his hand on my arm and I don't think, I swear I don't, but I hit him away and scramble the final meter into the corner, and I'm trapped, trapped, trapped, and –  _"Please!_ I couldn't help it, please,  _please_ , Eric, I couldn't . . . please . . . don't . . ."

Tears stream down my face, though I'm not sobbing, really, no, my breath is all over the place and I'm shaking but not with sobs, I'm just broken and shaking, just a broken little human in a world she has no business in, yes, that's it, that's all I am – stupid,  _stupid_ little fool . . .

Eric says, in Swedish, and in a voice unlike any I've ever heard from him,  _"My darling girl . . ."_  and lowers to the floor. To his knees. I press my knuckles against my mouth. "Annie . . ." He touches my leg. I pull away, a little, but his fingers follow. "Annie, be still. Be still." He catches my hand, and I jerk it, but he holds on, just tight enough that it can't get away. "You are safe," he whispers. "Hear me now, no one will . . . I am not going to hurt you. Dear, I swear it. Please . . . be still."

His touch lets me feel him, a little. Makes me feel him, rather, shoots his emotions into me almost as if my hand is falling asleep, and the sensation isn't far from the same, all tingly and twisting. It's regret. And it's strong regret, I know, because I don't pick things up from Eric unless they're passionate.

My hand, swallowed by his, relaxes. Bit by bit. "I couldn't – I couldn't help it . . ."

"I believe you." Eric releases my hand and raises his to my head. I squeeze my eyes shut as he sweeps my hair down my back. "I believe you, sweetheart. Shh . . _."_ He keeps stroking my hair, as gentle as a breeze, and gradually my breathing evens out. I open my eyes again, but stay tucked into myself, tucked into the corner. Even after I stop shaking.

Eventually, Eric brings his hand down along my jaw and tries to guide my chin towards him. I tug my head away. "Let me look," he says. "Please, Annie. Let me . . ." He tries again, and this time I let him turn my head his way, his fingers as light as butterflies. I don't meet his gaze, though. He's still for a second. Two seconds, three. Then I hear his fangs snap out. He presses his thumb into one of them, and I let him dab his blood onto a spot on my lip. He takes hold of my shoulder after, as the sting on my mouth melts away. "How is your neck?" His voice is tight. Scratchy. I swallow.

"It doesn't hurt. My wrist . . ." I pull my right arm up my body. "I landed on it."

Eric takes the wrist, massages it for a moment, and kisses it. Then he drops his forehead against the back of my hand. "I cannot let you drink my blood," he says. "That would prevent your face from forming a bruise. Talbot would think it strange."

And for some reason, it's this that finally pushes me away from the odd, shaking place and into the far more familiar state of sobbing. And when Eric's touch gets just forceful enough to pull me to him, I don't fight. His arms are familiar, too. He gathers me up and carries me to the bed, me clinging to his neck like he's never done a single thing to hurt me in my life, and I don't let go when he sets me down, and he doesn't try to make me. He holds his hand against the back of my head, fingers combing through my hair.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs as I cry, "I should never have brought you here, I knew better." His lips press into my hair. "I am so sorry, Annie."

I curl into him. It's funny, I suppose, how easily I do so. But he's Eric. My Eric. Nearly twelve years of that, twelve years of running to him for comfort, twelve years of trusting him to make things better, or to protect me before things get worse, can't be knocked away with one blow to the face. No matter how much it hurt. No matter how much it still hurts.


	15. Too Much

Thea was my favorite doll. She was blonde, fair-skinned, and blue-eyed – like me, like Eric. I imagine that's a large part of why I liked her so much. Her dress matched her eyes, and her shoes were black. For a long time – it seems like it was years, but I was five the last night I had her, so it couldn't have been  _many_  years – I took her everywhere. I had no friends, no other children around, and I didn't understand at the time – not consciously – that that was unusual. But I think I was making do with Thea. I loved her.

One night, during one of Eric's visits to Öland, Thea's shoe strap broke. I went to him to fix it, as I went to him to fix everything, when he was available – which, as it turned out, he wasn't this time. But I was too young to understand that. If I saw him now as I saw him on that night, pacing in front of his study's fireplace with the phone to his ear, a stony look on his face as he spoke in a language I didn't know, I would leave the room and check back later. But I was only five. So I bothered him. Tugged at his sleeve, tried to wait when he held up a hand, couldn't help myself and tugged at his sleeve again. Two or three times. I still don't know why he was on the phone. Probably a business deal gone awry. Whatever it is was, he finally snapped the phone shut and – this piece of the memory is vivid – pressed it to his forehead, eyes closed. And I tugged on his sleeve again. Said his name. Held up Thea. At which point he snatched her and threw her into the fireplace.

She disappeared so fast. Dolls are very flammable, as it happens. And the smell they make as they burn gets in your head and comes back whenever you think about it. I tried to pull her out. Eric stopped me. I remember screaming, screaming so loudly I expected to get in trouble for it and didn't care, but Eric didn't make me stop, didn't say anything about it. He let me scream and cry as he stood staring at the fire, and then, when I suppose I had nothing else in me, he told me, very quietly, to go to bed. And I did. Sniffling and whimpering like . . . like a five-year-old, I guess.

The next evening, I found a giant red box with a golden bow waiting for me in the library. I lifted the top off, and there was Beowulf, with his gleaming brown coat, bright eyes, and wonderfully floppy ears. Thea became a thing of the past.

But I've never forgotten that night in Eric's study. I didn't understand it so well then, but looking back at various times in later years, including now, I see that the horror of the evening wasn't just in losing Thea, wasn't even in watching her burn. It was in losing Thea because of  _Eric_. Not as a punishment, not in an accident, not in any way my young mind could comprehend . . . Eric just lost his temper and hurt me.

And tonight, wrapped in Eric's arms, my face throbbing, I keep replaying that evening – the fire, Thea, Eric with the phone to his forehead – over and over in my mind. And this isn't the same thing, what just happened here, in a king's house in Mississippi. Eric didn't hit me because he was angry, I know that. He hit me because he decided he had to, for appearance's sake, for our safety. And he's sorry. He's said so, I've felt it, I know it's true.

But still I think about the study. Because only twice in my life have I seen Eric as someone who truly presented a danger to me, as a man who might do anything. That night was the first time. Tonight was the second. And sitting on the bed with him now, his fingers running through my hair, I know him, I trust him, I don't see him as dangerous. But I can't shake the knowledge that he could be. Under the right circumstances. My face is starting to swell . . . so no, I can't shake that knowledge.

_And this time he doesn't have a rabbit to give me to make it all better._

But still I rest against his quiet chest. Still I feel safer with him than I could anywhere else.

_Is that wrong?_

"Is there a brush in the bathroom?"

It's the first thing Eric has said in minutes. The first thing either of us has said, aside from his apology, since he moved me to the bed. I brush cold tears from my eyes, cough a little. "There's a comb."

Eric pulls away, bringing a lock of my hair over my shoulder as he does so, frowning. "Go get it. I'll brush your hair out. It's too pretty to stay this tangled."

I push myself back, just enough to cross my legs, and examine the strands for myself. "It's still wet," I whisper. "You're not supposed to brush hair when it's wet. It gets damaged more easily."

"And where did you hear that?"

_"_ I read it in  _Cosmo."_

". . . You read  _Cosmo_?"

"Ginger usually has a copy in her car." I'm close enough to the head of the bed that I only have to fall back a little to rest against the mound of pillows. So I do so. "I should just cut it short." I rub the hair between my fingers. It's been waist-long or close for most of my life, and God knows how much time that has cost me. "It would be more convenient."

"No, don't do that. You have lovely hair." Eric folds one leg in front of him, letting the other dangle off the bed – well, not dangle. It touches the floor quite easily. "But then again, you would be lovely regardless. So do as you will."

And there it is, with those simple words: The glowing feeling – entirely mine – that blooms in my heart and warms my whole body whenever Eric compliments me, or praises me, or expresses approval of me in any way. The glow is as bright as ever. I can't push it down, it's as strong as vampire blood, in its way.

Which is good, actually. I could use a boost at the moment, and I'll take it from wherever it comes. I clear my throat. "Eric . . ." What are the right words?

"Yes?" He's taken my right hand – the one with the hurt wrist – in both of his, and he presses it, rubs it, watches it like it might have something to tell him.

"The crown was your father's, right?"

His fingers don't stop moving, but I'm paying attention to his eyes, and they rise to look at something that isn't me, isn't even in the room, I think.

"I saw him." I use my free hand to play with the tie on my robe. "And . . . your mother. I suppose that's who she was. And I saw you as a human. You looked so different."

"But still dashingly handsome, I'm sure?"

I just play with the tie. He's trying to change the subject, which I don't want, and anyway . . . I'm not ready to joke with him yet. I'm not angry, I'm  _not,_ but not-angry and joking are very different things. "You never told me your father was a king . . . You've never told me much of anything about your human life."

Eric swallows, still focusing on my hand. Or maybe only pretending to. "You said you had no control, with the crown. That you couldn't help but go to it. Explain that to me."

Now I swallow, too. "Eric, I promise –"

"I do not need you to promise, dear, I've said I believe you. I only want to understand."

So I tell him about the humming. How it was peaceful and familiar, how I trusted it, how I never thought twice . . . and just talking about it makes me sort of lightheaded, so I finish quickly.

Eric's jaw works. It's been working throughout my explanation. His hands are only holding mine now, they're not moving anymore. Well, one thumb strokes my skin. But I don't think Eric is doing that consciously. "Your abilities are developing quite a mind of their own, aren't they?"

I don't know what he means by that, honestly, so I suppose I shouldn't take it in a bad way. But I'm already emotional, and my mind starts spinning all sorts of harsh words for me.  _Your abilities are developing quite a mind of their own, aren't they? . . . How troublesome. What a burden. Can't you control it? Weak little girl . . ._

"You're the one who bought a psychic," I say.

"And I do not regret it. I was not implying that I did. Your power is growing. This is a good thing."

Which should please me, but . . . his words ram up against a wall inside of me. A wall blocking off all places of comfort and confidence. "I . . . I'm not sure I think so." And, naturally, tears well in my eyes. "Ugh!" I wipe them in a manner I can only call vicious. Eric tightens his hold on my hand, but I pull away from him. "I am  _sick_ of crying!" I jump from the bed and start pacing, heels of my palms buried in my eyes.

"Annie," Eric says, a note of surprise in his tone. Along with concern. I whirl to face him, bringing my arms to my sides. My hands form fists as I speak.

"Right now – right now it's sleepwalking, and having visions, and showing up in places I shouldn't be, and – making things fly across the room. That's all little things, things that are – well, not harmless, but – manageable. Right now, that's all it is, being psychic, having powers, but – how long until it's something more serious than that? How long until I'm dangerous? How long until I'm burning down Chicago?"

My words settle around us like dust or a heavy snow, bringing silence and a cold spell.

Eric swings his second leg to the floor and leans over his knees. "You know about Chicago?"

_Damn it, Annika . . ._ "For a while now."

"Did Pam tell you?"

". . . Godric told me."

"Godric?" Eric's mouth hangs open, not as if he's shocked so much as if he can't coax his words out. "I left you alone with him for five minutes."

"He thought I needed to know . . . Why did  _you_  never tell me?"

"About one vampire who happened to go mad?"

"About one  _psychic_  vampire who happened to go mad."

"He has nothing to do with you. He is but one of history's many gifted vampires."

"He burned down a city."

"Only a third or so of it."

I'm opening my mouth to tell him that a  _third-or-so_ of a city is still quite a lot when my stomach outdoes me, growling so loudly that even a human – a not-me human – would be able to hear it. Eric certainly does. "I requested they bring you food," he says, each word a little too short. "Did they not?"

I gesture to the plate in the corner, waiting like a trap. "They brought me strawberries."

Eric mutters something I can't make out, then stands. "I will see that you are properly fed."

"Not now, please." My voice is tight and small, catching me by surprise. Protesting at all caught me by surprise.

"Annika, you must eat."

"I will, but I'm fine, don't – we're in the middle of a conversation, don't go now. Please."

He looks at me for a moment, then lowers to the bed again, resting his elbows on his knees once more. Giving me what is, I believe, his undivided attention. And that's never  _not_ going to make me feel at least a little good, even if that good is almost smothered beneath a mound of heavier, darker things.

"Godric said . . ." I begin to wring my hands. "He said it's easier for people like me to go mad." To be fair, I'm not sure  _that_ version of Godric wasn't a creation of my own mind – in fact, I'm almost certain it was – but nonetheless, that idea is hard to shake.

"Godric overstepped his bounds," Eric says flatly. I don't know how to respond, as I've never heard Eric criticize Godric, even mildly. He holds a hand out, and I go to him, my fingers still tangled together. Eric uses one finger to tuck hair behind my ears, his every movement slow, slower than they probably would have been, had different events brought us to this moment. "There is nothing wrong with your mind, little one. Except perhaps that it works too much. Do not fret over this."

"I'm fretting over many things."

He sighs. "I know."

I didn't use to fret this much. I used to have quite the simple life. I inhale. The breath wobbles only a bit. "Eric," I say as he takes my hand again, "When this is over, I want to go back to Öland."

"Well, after this, we will have certainly earned a vacation –"

"I don't want to go there on vacation. I want to move back there. I want to live there again." Away from werewolves. Away from giant houses filled with strangers. Away from villains and threats and strawberries on pretty plates.

Away from nightclubs. Away from vampires.

_You can never get away from vampires. This world has you like the human world never will . . ._

_And you love some of those vampires._

I do, I truly do. Which is why my desire to leave is accompanied by lots and lots of guilt. But that desire runs deep, and I can't uproot it.

Eric is expressionless. "Is this because of what just happened?"

"No," I say, I think honestly. Mostly honestly. "It's because of . . . a lot." My hand, in his, looks like a toy. A doll's hand. He could crush it if he wanted to, with hardly any effort, but instead he holds it like he might a tiny animal, pets it like he's trying to calm it down. "It's because of the magister," I tell our hands. "And the . . . psychic . . . things. The werewolves, the King, and Talbot, and Dallas. It's all been so much. I want . . ."

I want to go to where I had a room with windows and space to run outside, and no one ever broke in and made threats, and politics never seeped into my life, and I barely understood that danger existed.

I love Eric. I love Pam. I even love Fangtasia. But I'm eleven. Almost twelve, but . . . still eleven. And human. And lately, between Louisiana, Texas, and Mississippi, between werewolves and monarchs . . . it hasn't just been  _so_  much, it's been  _too_ much. That's the simple truth. I'm eleven, still eleven, and it's been too much.

"I want . . . some peace for a while." I peek at Eric. I still can't read him, not even like normal people can read people. He takes his time with an answer, and even when he gives it, it's not really an answer.

"This is one more thing we should discuss at a later time."

"I mean it, Eric."

"I am sure you do." He sounds weary, which makes me feel worse, but . . . I needed to tell him. Because I  _do_ mean it. And I had to say all of this aloud while I had the nerve. "That is why we will discuss it."

And I think I'll let that be, for now. Really, I'm not prepared to go deeper into the conversation, anyway. The important thing is that the idea is out there, and I can't take it back. Eric knows it's what I want and that we have to talk about it. And it will be good to be in a more familiar place when we do, a safer place, because that's a better setting in which to have an argument. And it  _will_ be an argument, no matter how calm Eric sounds about it now. Maybe not a loud one, but . . . he'll fight me over it.

But. Like he said. That's all for later. We've wasted enough time this evening. We still have so many problems at hand. Pam and the magister, primarily. Not to mention pleasing the King of Mississippi, the only one who might be able to help us, to help Pam . . . and who happens to have a relic belonging to Eric's family, his  _human_ family, on display in his home.

"You didn't tell Talbot the crown belonged to your father," I say.

"He cannot know that. Neither can Edgington."

"Edgington?"

"The king."

"Talbot said there were a hundred crowns like it. The King might give it to you, or at least let you buy it from him."

"I cannot  _buy_ what was never  _his_." And from his hand into mine flows rage, Eric's special brand of frozen rage, and I withdraw from his grasp. Immediately he rolls his palm towards me, eyes meeting mine, questioning. And worried.

"You're angry," I whisper. "I felt it."

"Not at you."

"I know." I stare at him. "The King, he . . . It's not a coincidence that he has the crown, is . . .  _What?"_ That last part isn't to Eric – I swing my head to the side, staring at a place in the wall where a window might be, in a different house. Something is coming up to the mansion,  _someone,_ someone stumbling along, someone with waves in them that match waves in me . . .

"What is it?" Eric trades holding my hand for grasping my arm.

"Sookie . . ."

"Sookie?"

"She's here."

Eric twists to look at the door, and somewhere between his vampire senses and his blood in Sookie's body, he picks up her presence, too. "So she is. Wonderful."

"You should go."

He turns to me again. "You are more important than Sookie."

"I know." Once again, the warm, glowing feeling explodes in me. I smile a little but not for long, because doing so bunches up the left side of my face, and that hurts in more ways than one. "But she's important, isn't she?" I don't know what I mean by that, exactly, but it's true.

Still Eric hesitates.

"I'm fine," I say. "I'm okay here. You should go see what's going on."

He rises. "I'll get food to you as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

He touches my head. Then there's a  _whoosh_ of air, and I'm alone.

. . . . .

It's probably an hour before Eric returns. An hour of sitting and staring and pacing and thinking, interrupted once by a servant returning our clothes. I eagerly change into mine, and that, at least, is a blessing. It's one thing to be in a stranger's house. It's another to be naked except for a single article allowed to you by that stranger. I run my hands over my jeans once they're snugly on my legs, appreciating their familiar stretch and texture.

I'm putting on my shoes when Eric enters. In the span of time between his opening the door and shutting it behind him, I hear from the hallway:  _"Let – me – go!_ I have powers, I'll use them, I – "

It's Sookie's voice. Even once the door is closed, I can hear her shouting. And, worse, her emotions rode in on her words and slammed into my gut, staggering me. I'm filled with fear like ice-rain. Fury like a windstorm. And heartbreak . . . heartbreak like Bill's.

Also, a touch of panic, an electric shock to the heart. I put my hand to my chest.  _THUDTHUD, THUDTHUD._  "What –"

"Not now." Eric takes my hand from my chest and doesn't let go. "We are leaving."

". . . To Fangtasia?"

"Yes." He guides me to the door. "The king wishes to speak with the magister." He listens before twisting the doorknob, but I don't hear Sookie anymore, and I don't think Eric does, either. "Be quiet now." He trails his finger down the side of my face before taking my arm in a way far less personal, but I don't fight, of course. I let him lead me out of the room, swallowing my questions about Sookie, swallowing her heart-wrenching feelings. I don't need to concern myself with her right now, what's happened to her, why she's here, I can't.

_More pressing matters. Problems at hand._

Eric and I walk the hallway and take the staircase down to the foyer, where we find the King, dressed in a smart outfit complete with sporty jacket, speaking to a guard. Talbot is nowhere in sight, for which I am thankful. The King dismisses the guard at our approach, and I am unnerved, once again, by the . . . the  _gravity_ of him. Of his power. Not to mention the echo of Eric's anger.  _I cannot_ buy _what was never_ his _._ No. Somehow, it's not a coincidence that this man has that crown.

The King is not our friend.

He squints at me, the King, as we meet him in the center of the room. "What in the world happened to you?" It takes one second to comprehend that he's asking me a direct question, another to realize what he's talking about. Two hours must have passed since Eric struck me. I've felt the left side of my face sting and burn and swell, but it didn't occur to me that a bruise would already be visible. Clearly it must be.

_A bruise. Eric bruised you._

_No, don't dwell on that. Not the time._

"I disobeyed Eric," I say, my tone controlled, my voice ringing through the room.

"Mm." The King glances at my guardian, bringing his eyebrows together. "A bit heavy-handed, aren't you? She's a pretty little thing. It's a shame to ruin that."

"She knew better," Eric says in a voice I barely know. "And bruises heal."

He squeezes my arm as he speaks, very lightly. I watch the King's shiny shoes.

"She has proven her inability to behave like a proper guest," Eric continues. The King's face has relaxed again – he's moved past his moment of polite concern for my pretty face. "So I am going to take this opportunity to return her to Shreveport. I will fly her there and meet you."

The King clasps his hands in front of him. "Oh, Mr. Northman, we're not going to Shreveport right away."

A beat of silence. "We are not?" Eric says, as if he and the King were discussing nothing more important than dinner plans.

"No . . . We have a stop to make first. To see an old friend of yours." He gestures to me. "But by all means, bring the girl. I thought we'd take the limo, she can ride along. I confess I'm a bit intrigued . . . I've always had a fascination with psychics." He gives Eric a closed-lipped smile before waving at the double doors. "Shall we?" And the King of Mississippi strides out without waiting for an answer, the hem of his jacket blowing behind him as he goes.

I lift my eyes to Eric, not daring to speak, but the question burns through my mind, and hopefully makes it to my expression as well:  _Did you tell him?_

And  _his_ expression, wide-eyed and stiff and not directed at me, tells me he did not.


	16. Master Race

"I hope you don't misunderstand me," the King says to Eric as the limo's tires start to roll beneath us, carrying us away from the mansion and into the darkness, to a destination still unstated by our host. "I don't blame you at all for not immediately announcing her true nature upon your arrival." He gestures to me. The limo has two sets of seats (aside from however many are up front with the unseen driver), one set facing the back of the limo and one set facing the front, like in a normal car. The King sits in the middle of the seat facing the back, his arms stretched out and relaxed in all of his free space. Eric and I are in the seats facing the limo's front, Eric by the right window, me by the left. The King's legs stretch out like two posts dividing my side from Eric's. "If my sources are correct," the King continues, "your little human here is quite promising. I would have tried to keep that particular card up my sleeve, too."

"I assure you, your Majesty, had I known you had any special interest in her kind, I would have mentioned it." Eric sounds perfectly at ease. Like we're just out for a pleasant drive with an old friend. "But honestly, her current level of ability is quite . . . underwhelming."

This is going to be an unpleasant car ride.

"Well, that's not very telling, at such a young age," says the King. I wrap my fingers – they're colder than they should be – around my sore wrist and rub it. Hard enough to hurt. I keep my eyes on the world outside as we cruise past the willow trees and turn off the driveway, onto a real road. "I myself have had two psychics in my inner circle over the centuries. Neither of them had any significant discernible skill until well after puberty . . . Then again, neither of them lasted very long."

He elaborates no further.

There's a dry spot in my throat, begging me to swallow, but I know it would be loud if I did. I don't want to draw attention to myself . . . more attention. I'm being foolish, of course. I'm already the topic of conversation. I haven't looked at him, but I'm sure the King's eyes are on me, or at least on me as much as they are on Eric. As if I'm one of the artifacts in his mansion, just a conversation piece . . .

A shot of anger flashes through me, my own anger, and I'm grateful for it – it's better than the trembling world of nerves and fear. It's stronger.

"Rumor has it you paid quite a sum for her," the King says as the limo begins to pick up speed, flying over the asphalt and turning other cars into streams of light.  _Rumor has it. If my sources are correct._ Who did he hear from? Who did he call? "Of course, it's odd enough that you paid in the first place. Glamouring not sporting enough for you?"

"Her mother belonged to another," Eric says in that same, easy voice. "He was not a vampire I was eager to make my enemy."

 _Odd enough that you paid in the first place._ I've never questioned Eric purchasing me. It never occurred to me that it was strange. But now . . . The King, he's absolutely right – it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Eric to wait until I was born and glamour my mother into forgetting my existence before taking me for himself. But no. No, he paid for me, paid what was, evidently, an impressive amount. Because my mother  _belonged to a vampire_. Something Eric never mentioned to me. Not once.

_Eric didn't tell you something? How shocking._

"Anyway," my guardian continues, "regardless of what you may have heard, the price was hardly outrageous. For some years, I'd been looking for a psychic of note to make my own."

"And you wanted a child, specifically?"

"That was my preference. I was intrigued by the idea."

"Of course. Raise it to love you,  _then_  turn it . . . Hard to imagine a way to make a more loyal creature."

"Exactly."

I squeeze my wrist, sending heat up a tendon in my arm. Godric told me something just like that, really, about the potential effect of a vampire turning a human he had had for her entire life . . . but somehow, Godric made it sound nicer.

"I was directed to the child," Eric says. "Or, to her mother, rather. I thought it a worthwhile investment. If only to indulge my curiosity."

"When you say you were directed . . .?"

"I had people in my employ keeping an eye out."

"Psychics themselves?"

"A few."

"Witches?"

Silence.

 _No . . . Witches? Eric had_ witches  _find me?_

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the King wave a pale hand. "Don't worry. I'm no fan of them, of course, but as you may have already noticed, I tend to subscribe to the philosophy of the ends justifying the means."

"Your Majesty is referring to the werewolves?" Eric asks.

"Among other things." Then the King shifts, bringing his arms to his sides. I feel the air stir. He's leaned closer to me. "What is your name, my dear?"

I can't help but swallow now. I meet the King's gaze, though, I have no choice. The only light reaching us is the irregular glow from the outside world, a yellow-orange combination of streetlamps and headlights. Th King's eyes shouldn't be able to gleam quite so much. But they do.

"Annika," I say in a clear voice, and then remember to add, "Your Majesty."

"Well, I don't care what Talbot says." The King smiles. It reminds me of the smile my math-and-science tutor gives me when I answer a question wrong but he knows I tried. "You seem perfectly well-behaved to me."

I resist glancing at Eric. I know how important eye contact can be, so I hold the King's, even though I don't won't to, oh, I don't want to. I clench my wrist like it's a lifeline, welcoming the pain that shoots up my arm. It's a distraction. A minor one, but it's there.

"Take a deep breath, child," says the King, his smile fading, his voice lowering. Did he hear my heartbeat? Or is my fear just that obvious? "I'm not about to hurt you. You may be far too special."

Eric says, "Your Majesty really mustn't overestimate –"

The King lifts his hand, never taking his eyes from me. Eric goes silent.

 _Power,_ I think as I gaze back at the King.  _This is what power looks like._ And this is what power  _feels_  like, flowing from the King like electricity. Tickling my heart in an almost taunting way.

"Tell me about yourself, Annika," says the most powerful creature I've ever met, someone who could have fought Godric and won.

_Someone who could fight Eric and –_

"Your skills," the King says. "What can you do?"

"Not many things, your Majesty."

He continues to look at me. Expectant.

My abilities are not a secret. Not entirely. From what I've gathered from Eric over the years, he's tried to keep what I can do as well-hidden from the world as possible, but information leaks. The vampires in Dallas, at least those who were closest to Godric, knew about me. The queen, the queen of Louisiana – she knows. So does the magister. And surely, after eight years of my living in Sweden, some word of Eric Northman possessing a psychic human must have slipped out in that area . . . Not to mention the vampire my mother apparently belonged to. She lived in Germany, so the vampire probably lived in Germany, too . . . It's entirely likely, then, that vampires in at least three countries are aware of me, who I am, what I can do, who I belong to. Is that bad? It can't please Eric, I know that –

"Annika," I hear from my right. "The king asked you a question." I forget about eye contact and look at Eric as he speaks, prodding me along like I'm simply a shy child, but he has to know, he has to know that I'm not sure how to answer the King, how much truth to give or not give him after years and years of being told to keep my skills to myself, to check with Eric before discussing them with anyone . . .

"It's alright," Eric says quietly, and for a second, the  _other_ Eric – the one with the stranger's voice and the heavy hand – is put away, and I'm looking at the real Eric – well. The Eric I know, at least. "Tell him what he wants to know."

I want to reach out to him. Just for a moment, only to touch his arm, or to take hold of his shirt, just . . . something. But I know better. I turn back to the King. "I have visions sometimes. Unclear ones, generally. Flashes of events."

"Future events?"

"Occasionally, your Majesty." I'm being vague, mostly because I don't want to talk to him for long, but it's probably a good thing, yes? I'll give him more details if he asks, but even with Eric's permission to be honest, I think he would still want me to keep as much to myself as I can. Probably. The King is bad, after all, I'm almost certain. Eric's rage . . .

"Anything else?" the King asks.

I swallow again, I can't help it. That dry spot won't go away. "I can read people. I mean – I can sense what they're feeling."

"Can you hear their thoughts?"

"No, your Majesty."

"When you say  _people . . ._ do you mean vampires as well as humans?"

And, in spite of what Eric told me to do, my mind snaps in a different direction and I say, "No, your Majesty. I can't read vampires."

"Few can. Still . . . there are some. But not you? Not at all?"

"No, your Majesty," I say again. Lie again. I know how vampires feel about being read, Eric's explained it to me more than once, and he himself has gotten irritated with me for reading him, even when I couldn't help it. Pam has, too. Vampires love their privacy, more than humans, probably more than any other creature. And – I don't think I'm reading him, I  _can't_ be reading him – looking at the King, having him look back at me, I know in my bones that I don't want him to believe that at some point, even if that point is a million years in the future, I might be able to sense how he feels. Maybe even what he thinks.

"Hm," says the King. "Well, perhaps one day . . . Alright, Annika. Tell me this. Are you familiar at all with Sookie Stackhouse?"

"Somewhat."

"And what are your thoughts on her?"

"She's always been very kind to me, your Majesty."

"I'm sure she has, my dear, but what I  _meant_  was . . . Have you  _sensed_  anything about her? With those . . .  _reading_  skills of yours. I ask because she appears to be . . . special, somehow, though no one seems to be able to tell me why." He tilts his head at Eric, sending a dark lock of hair in front of his eyes. "Your master included."

So . . . did Eric not tell the King that Sookie is a telepath? Or does the King know, and just wants to know  _why_ Sookie's a telepath? I've always assumed it was just a rare  _thing_ she was born with, like Eric says is the case with my abilities – they're just special traits, traits in the same way eye color and foot size are, except everybody doesn't have them. But . . . maybe I'm not thinking about this correctly. Maybe Sookie's different. "I've sensed nothing especially . . . unusual about her," I say slowly. "Your Majesty. If I had, I would have told – my master."

That earns me another one of those smiles . . .  _Condescending._ That's a fitting word for it. "What a good girl you are." The King leans back again, stretches his arms out again, and – in a moment of remarkable relief on my end – turns his eyes to the other side of the car. "You know, Eric – may I call you Eric?"

"Certainly," Eric answers as my shoulders lower by at least an inch, the tension rushing from my muscles, leaving all sorts of tiredness behind.

"You never did explain to me your exact relationship with her," says the King. "Miss Stackhouse, that is."

"Well, her lover, Bill Compton, is –  _was_  – a constituent of mine. I kept an eye on that, because I knew she was of interest to my queen."

_Like me._

Bill Compton . . . Where is he now? Does he know Sookie is at the mansion? He must, he's had her blood . . . Does he care? She isn't his anymore, he said so, so . . . I don't know. And I shouldn't bother thinking about it. I don't have the space in my mind or heart to concern myself with Bill Compton, who doesn't like Eric, anyway.

"So no personal attachments to the waitress, then?" asks the King.

"As a rule," says Eric, "I avoid becoming attached to humans."

I start looking out the window again. Start fiddling with my hurt wrist again. White car on the road, black car on the road, red pain burning through my flesh.

"Still, you have to admit," the King says, "she is quite delectable."

"My tastes lie elsewhere," Eric says in a strange tone, deep and soft all at once. The King chuckles a little, though I don't understand why, and Eric chuckles a little, too. Then the King speaks again.

"Lorena thinks you killed one of my werewolves."

_Do I know who Lorena is?_

"I killed  _a_  werewolf," says Eric. "I was not aware it belonged to you."

"To save Sookie?"

"It appeared to be threatening my human at the time."

I turn my head, focusing on Eric's shoes, ready to join the conversation at the appropriate moment, if necessary.

_Please don't let it be necessary._

"I brought Annika to Sookie's house because, along with the abilities she mentioned to you, she has proven more-or-less adept at filtering lies from truth, and I needed to question Sookie regarding Bill's disappearance. That said, I did at one point feel the interrogation was becoming too much for the child, so I sent her from the room. That was when she ran into the werewolf."

"Poor thing," the King says to me. "That must have been terrifying."

Eric doesn't give me time to answer, for which I am grateful. "I interfered. And the werewolf attacked me."

"Only a very young or very foolish vampire can be killed by a werewolf," says the King, "and you are neither."

Eric's voice sharpens. "Only a vampire with no self-respect would allow a werewolf who attacked him to remain alive. They are base, primitive creatures. I will freely admit that I despise them. You're the first vampire I ever met who didn't feel the same way."

"Of course I do," the King says, sounding almost cheerful. "They're more dog than man – stupider than dogs, actually. But . . . it seems beneficial, to me, to use them rather than destroy them."

"How exactly do you use them?"

"I give them the blood."

A heavy quiet, then. The blood . . . Oh, how the werewolf sprang for Eric that night at Sookie's, after the bullet tore him open . . .  _Give me a taste, fucker._ That's what the werewolf said. Snarled. Rabidly.

"Oh, come now, Eric," the King says after a moment. "We just discussed  _your_  past entanglements with witches. Not to mention that you yourself have been dealing, so don't pretend to be a vampire fundamentalist. If all the supernaturals would stop squabbling among themselves and unite, we could conquer humans in a matter of days."

My mind is seized then. Seized and shown, in close-up, an image of the King's face, twisted in pained way, an animal way, his teeth bared as he says – straight to me, it seems – "We will  _eat_ you. After we eat your children."

And then my mind is mine again. My arm is on fire because I've clamped onto my bad wrist with all my strength, without meaning to. I release it and gulp, hard, not caring how loud it is, because that dry spot has grown –  _spot_ isn't even accurate anymore, my whole throat is just a sandpaper tube.

"This is your plan?" I hear Eric say.

"I prefer to call it my dream," answers the King, sounding wistful. Not murderous. Not monstrous.

"Well. I like this dream."

 _What was I seeing? When was it?_ I close my eyes, force the scene to replay in my head:  _We will eat you. After we eat your children._ I only saw the King's face, didn't I? I can't remember anything behind him, anything that could have given me a date, some sort of context – I could have been witnessing anything, anytime. The King has had three thousand years to say those things, to look like that. There's no reason to think it's something that's coming. Odds are, it's already happened, of course, it's probably already happened . . .

_He's a bad man._

_Oh, you think Eric's never said anything that vicious? You think Pam hasn't?_

I hate thoughts like those. I want thoughts like those to stop coming.

"Throughout history," the King is saying now, "I have aligned myself with or destroyed those humans in power, hoping to make a dent in mankind's race to oblivion. What other creature actively destroys his own habitat?"

"Hey, you're preaching to the choir."

"Do you remember how the air used to smell? How  _humans_  used to smell? How they used to taste?"

"I remember  _everything_ ," Eric says softly.

"Preening little fool that he was," muses the King, "Adolf was right about one thing: There is a master race . . ." I look up in time to see him grin. "It's just not the human race."


	17. Mirror

Harry Potter stands in front of the magical mirror, the giant magical mirror that shows anyone who goes before it the thing he or she wants most, and Harry, he looks back and forth between the images of his mother and father. His  _dead_ mother and father. They're on either side of him, looking all sad and ghostly. "Mum?" Harry says, and the woman nods. "Dad?" Harry says, and the man nods, too. And me, I wrap myself tighter in this throw blanket that smells too much like flowers, resting my head on the armrest of a loveseat. Eric sleeps on the bed behind me, far too gone to be bothered by the little television in the wall. We're in another strange bedroom in another strange mansion, although this time it all belongs to the queen of Louisiana. I'm tired of strange places. I'm tired of vampire monarchs.

We're spending the day here, in New Orleans. Well, we've already spent most of it. The digital clock on Eric's side of the bed read  _3:49_  when I got up. Checking the clock now seems like too much effort – I'm in such a nice little cocoon, flowery-smelling or not – but surely it's nearing nightfall. I've had time to watch most of this movie, the very first Harry Potter movie - I saw him buy his wand, at least. Eric will be up soon. And we'll be going with the King to Shreveport. To Fangtasia, to Pam. According to Eric, at least; it's what he told me as we sat in the queen's industrial kitchen shortly after our arrival here, me finally eating something – a peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich, several pickles, two apples, and some Doritos. The best meal of my life, simple as it was.

The King proposed to the queen last night. It's vampire politics. The King wants Louisiana, and, maybe because he killed all the queen's guards on the way in here (again, according to Eric – while he and the King made their entrance, I was left to wait in the limo, just off the mansion's perimeter) or maybe because he had some other leverage, the queen agreed to marry him. And now she's going back to Jackson with him.  _After_ we stop by Fangtasia and he gets Pam free.

According to Eric.

"What's going to happen to Sookie?" I asked him, talking in between mouthfuls when we were in the kitchen. Even though we were alone, Eric made it clear that he didn't trust our privacy by giving me a pointed look as he said, in a flat tone, that  _that_  was for the King to decide. So I focused on my sandwich from then on. We didn't talk much after that. Dawn sneaked up on us. Sneaked up on me, at least.

On the television, Harry Potter reaches out to the mirror, touches his own image, the image of him with his parents, the image of him as a normal child – well, a normal magical child – with a normal life. His mother rests a hand on his shoulder. Just in the mirror, though. Just in his fantasy. He tries to rest his hand on top of hers, and nothing's there. He's still alone, really. Still an orphan.

_Orphan._ That's an ugly word.

"This was a book first."

I twitch, halfway-jerking around to see Eric standing behind the loveseat, face changing colors in the television light. "I'm sorry," he says. I sink into the couch again. Eric comes around the loveseat's right side and lowers into the spot beside me. "This movie, this series." He props a bare foot on the glass coffee table in front of us. "It's based on books. Children seem to love them. I'll get them for you, if you'd like."

I tug the throw further up my shoulder. "You already did. I read them last year."

"Oh."

We sit in silence for a moment. So does Harry, cross-legged in front of the mirror, staring. "Did you sleep?" Eric asks.

"Yes."

He trails his fingers down my covered arm. "Any good dreams?"

"I didn't dream, really . . . I heard violin music once. That was pleasant, I suppose."

"I didn't know you liked the violin."

"Neither did I."

Dumbledore appears behind Harry. I remember how this goes. Dumbledore tells Harry that the magical mirror is bad, that people have gone mad because of it, because it shows you what you want more than anything, and sometimes you just can't get that. Sometimes you have no  _hope_ of getting that. Maybe it's  _so_  hopeless that you can't even admit it to yourself, can't even understand what it is, and then what if you saw it there, in the magical mirror? That might change everything. Open your world just to show you how empty it is, and then you might simply break apart . . .

_Your mind is working too much. Like Eric said it does._

I drop my eyes from the screen, poke my arm out from the blanket to pick at a loose thread on its corner. "What's the King going to do at Fangtasia?" I ask. "Can he give the magister orders?"

"It's . . . complicated," Eric says, as he so often does, when he doesn't want to explain something. For whatever reason. "But I believe he can secure Pam's release. This time tomorrow, you'll be waking up in your own bed."

"You swore your allegiance to the King."

"Yes."

Do I need to say it? Any of it?  _He's a bad man. He has werewolves, he gives them his blood. He has Sookie, whom you care for, yes? And he has your father's crown, Eric, and . . . he did something to you, didn't he?_

"I know what I am doing, Annika," Eric says before I can choose the right words. So I just stop trying and check the television screen in time to see Dumbledore, old and wise and magical, tell Harry Potter that it doesn't do to dwell on dreams.

"You never . . ." I stop.

"What?"

"You never told me my mother belonged to a vampire."

"I didn't believe it relevant."

"It was about my mother."

"Your  _mother_ isn't relevant."

I pull the blanket tighter around me. Eric's fingers slip off as it moves, but they settle again, after a moment. "Where you came from doesn't matter, Annika. You are mine. You've been mine from your first breath. Five weeks before it, technically."

Look at Dumbledore, with his ridiculously long beard and stupid-looking wizard clothes, acting as if he knows what's best for Harry. As if he's so much smarter. The way grown-ups have always done with children, I think, since the beginning of time.

Although usually those grown-ups are the children's parents.

I get the sense that Eric wants me to say something, but I don't have anything to say. Not to him. Not right now. And, eventually, he understands that, I suppose, and stands. "Come. The King will not want to waste time. We need to get you breakfast before we leave."

I shrug out of the throw – the warm, comforting throw – as Eric presses a button on the television, killing it, sucking Harry Potter and Dumbledore into blackness. He walks behind me, across the room, as I run a hand through my knotted hair. I flinch when the lights snap on, but I rise, tossing the blanket over the back of the couch, and then I look at Eric, only to see him looking back at me in a bad way. Not as if I'm in trouble. More like . . . like I said something cruel, something so cruel and smart that I actually managed to hurt him. My spine stiffens, and I'm about to ask him what's wrong when I catch movement behind him – myself, my reflection, in the lowest section of an artsy, five-piece mirror arrangement on the wall.

I had my right side towards Eric before, while we were on the loveseat. Now we can both see my left side. The left side of my face, to be specific. Last night, there was a red welt. Now there's a bruise. A real bruise, purple and blue, worst on my cheek, but it's spread over my skin like a rash, touching my eye and the corner of my lip. Eric has a big hand. I have a little face.

I brush my fingers across the mark. It feels like there are bubbles over my bones. The girl in the mirror doesn't look like she knows what to do, so I turn back to Eric, because he usually does. But he just keeps looking at me in that bad way, and as he takes my shoulders, I realize I'm wrong – he's not looking at  _me_ , really. You look into someone's eyes when you're looking at them. Eric, his jaw tight, is looking at  _it._

Slowly, I wrap my hands around his forearms. "It doesn't really hurt," I whisper.

And that, that gets him to look at me, truly look at me, and he clasps the good side of my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. His eyes are more . . . open than they usually are. I don't mean the  _eyelids,_ I mean his actual eyes, they – they show more than they tend to. Pain, for one thing. And that makes me hurt, but it makes me feel good, too, in a way. Better than I felt a minute ago. Better about . . . us. Not great, but better.


	18. The New Authority

Fangtasia's red neon sign is dark. That looks very wrong and I don't like it. The club's parking lot is empty, except for one black van waiting right outside the entrance.

"You hear that?" the King asks softly, indicating the club. We're standing by the limo, him, Eric, me, and the queen, who's been pouting like a child all night – which, truthfully, I can't blame her for. The limo is parked in the center of the lot with no regard for the painted lines. The driver isn't getting out, I suppose. I wonder who he is, how he ended up with this job . . . which is probably my brain trying to distract itself.

_Pam is in there. And so is the magister._

"I do," Eric replies. "The magister's henchmen . . . Three?"

"I believe so." The King pops his jacket's collar. "You told me he had your progeny in the basement?"

Eric nods once.

"Why don't you run ahead? I'll handle the guards." He smiles at the queen, who is leaning against the limo, her arms crossed and her lips pursed. She's wearing three strands of pearls and a shiny, cream-colored dress fit for a ball. Her red hair is curled, and pinned back just so from her lovely face — she's every bit the woman I saw in my vision. "We can do it together, my beloved," says the King. "Our very first couples' activity."

She huffs out a lungful of air, eyes rolling to the sky, but I don't find out what, if anything, she says back to the King, because the ground vanishes from beneath me and I'm thrust through a tornado of blues and blacks and there's a  _BANG_ that jars through me and then I'm back on my feet, only there are walls around me now, and I almost fall down.

A tiny, whimpering sound slips from my mouth. I cross my arms over my chest, swallowing, blood pulsing through me like it's angry at something.

"I'm sorry." Eric takes my shoulder. There's a second  _bang,_ smaller and farther away, and I jump and look towards it. It was the employee entrance, the heavy door at the end of the hallway, closing behind  _us,_ I suppose. "I'm sorry, Annie, that was too sudden, I should have warned you. But you need to listen to me now." He's bent to my level. Over his shoulder is another door, also heavy, but scarier than the employee entrance, at least now. It's the door to the basement. "I have to take you in there with me. I cannot be certain of what is about to happen, and I want you where I can grab you if I need to. Follow me in. Stay at the top of the stairs, no matter what you see. Do you understand?"

Fear rolls through me then, and I don't think it's entirely my own – no, I know some of it is Pam's, we're so close to her now . . . but some of it is definitely mine, too, I don't want to go in there, I don't want to know what –

"Annika!"

"Yes, I understand."

And the next second I am alone in the hallway, the door to the basement swinging on its hinges, and I hear Eric's muffled shout. I stumble forward and catch the door before it closes, and for a moment – only a tiny moment, only long enough to draw in a crooked breath – I rest my head against the cool metal. Then I shove myself forward and step down into darkness.

"Mr. Northman."

The words float up the stairs like a cold mist, and I have to keep walking into it, two steps down, then three . . .

_"Enough,"_  I hear Eric spit out.

And four. From here, I can see everything. Too much.

Pam is laid out on a table, silver chains draped across her, like horrible weeds growing around a statue. She's only in pants and a bra, so her stomach and arms and shoulders are in direct contact with the silver. Even from here, even in the dim light, I can see the welts beneath them. I wrap my hands around the railing in front of me. Maybe to anchor myself. I don't know, I don't know when I decided to do it, let alone why.

The magister stands over Pam. He wears a white shirt, a blue tie, and one black glove on a hand that has something shiny – and, one can assume, silver – in its fingers. He traces his other hand over Pam's face, apparently just slightly put-upon by Eric's sudden presence. "It's only  _enough_ if Bill Compton is with you," he says. "Is he?"

"No, Magister," says Eric, and I try to get my eyes to land on him, even if the back of his head is all I would see, but they refuse to leave Pam. She's staring at the ceiling, hands clenched. Eric continues, "But the queen of Louisiana is."

And, as if on cue, the door above me swings open, letting in light as well as the queen. She struts down the steps behind me, high heels sending echoes through the basement, and leaves the staircase to stand beside Eric.

The magister stiffens, I think. "Our deal was –"

"I confess that you were correct before in suspecting me," Eric says, drowning him out. "But everything I did was at  _her_  behest."

I finally manage to peel my eyes from Pam so I can study the magister's face, because more than anything in the world, I want him to be afraid. But I don't think he is, and I'm not even sure if he should be. I understand nothing about what is about to happen. All I can do is hope that it ends with him suffering.

The magister puts down his something silver and pushes off the table, away from Pam, and takes slow, almost lazy steps towards Eric. "You realize, of course, you're committing treason? Throwing your queen under the bus as you are?"

"Oh, but she's no longer my queen . . . My loyalty is to Mississippi now."

And, in a theatrical sort of move I suppose I should have expected, the basement door is once again flung open, this time to reveal the King. "And Mississippi is  _proud_ to claim Mr. Northman as one of her own," he announces to us all. He passes me by, patting my head as he does so. It's all I can do not to flinch from him. I catch Eric's eye as the King trots down the stairs. He looks back at me for a long, steady second.

"Love the place," the King says as he reaches Eric. "Love the vibe. We must talk franchising later." He passes my guardian to stand before the magister, who laughs in a low, breathy way, taking him in.

"Russell Edgington."

_"You_ may call me King."

The magister pops one eyebrow before addressing the queen of Louisiana. "Is it true what Northman says?"

After a long moment, she nods. "Yes, Magister."

"Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest you."

The queen's head swivels towards the King as the magister steps closer to her, saying, "By the powers vested in me by the Authority, I hereby –"

"The  _Authority?_ " The King lets his head fall back, and what he does next I can only describe as  _cackling_ , which I thought was something only evil storybook characters and fictional supervillains did. "Are you serious?  _Who_ are the Authority? What  _gave them_ the authority?"

_The Authority._ Something I've heard of before. Not often. Less than I have about the queen, certainly.

The King begins to circle the magister like a tiger might, and as he does so, Eric moves past them and goes to Pam. He touches her head, murmuring.

"Nothing!" snaps the King, answering his own question. "No one! They  _took_ it. As I am taking it today . . . I no longer recognize the  _Authority."_

The magister glares back at him. "You are aware that –  _she stays on the table!"_ This last part he yells at Eric, who found something to put over his hand and was just starting to remove one of the chains holding down Pam. "You are aware," the magister starts again, chillingly calm, when he's satisfied that Eric will not continue, "that just  _saying_  that is a cardinal sin?"

"I am aware of just what a tough little boat I'm puttin' you in." The King closes in on the him, so they're practically nose-to-nose. "Honestly, it is kinda fun."

The magister doesn't back away. He even snorts, like the King isn't . . . well, who he is. But I don't really know who the magister is, do I? Not fully. "You know I'm beholden by duty to convey your blasphemy to the –"

"To the Authority? Well, that won't be happenin' . . . but enough about  _you_." He glides over to the queen and takes her arm, ignoring her resistance. "In exchange for the money she owes the IRS, Queen Sophie-Anne –" Here he pauses to kiss her shoulder, smacking his lips as he does so – "has agreed to my marriage proposal."

"I had no choice," the queen is quick to tell the magister, as if afraid of what this marriage will do to her reputation. And perhaps she is.

Anyway, something's changed with the king's reveal of the engagement. I don't know what or why, it's all vampire politics, but the magister takes a long pause before his next words, and his next words happen to be, "Your Majesty," which is, I think, telling.

As is the King's response, which is, "Yes, my loyal subject?" I can't see his face, but he sounds gleeful, and he leans forward with his ear towards the magister. "Oh! Why, yes – we would be delighted if you would officiate the weddin' for us."

The magister walks back to the table, where Eric stands over Pam like a gargoyle, and speaks slowly, carefully. "I'm forbidden to conduct any rites of alignment unless specifically authorized by –"

"Unless specifically authorized to do so by the Authority." The King drops both Sophie-Anne's arm and his cheery tone. I think he's losing his patience. "Yes, well, perhaps you have not quite grasped the subtext of our earlier exchange, but there's a  _new fucking Authority in town!"_

Yes, he's certainly losing his patience.

His saying that is a big deal, I think. The room takes on a new weight, and everyone is quiet, for a few of my heartbeats, and then the magister says – and his voice is shaking, but that could be from fright or fury – "I swear fealty now and always to the one true vampire Authority, whose wisdom and justice –"

The room blurs. I hear clanging sounds, I hear Pam gasp, and then – oh, it's like the greatest magic trick the world has ever seen – the magister is the one on the table, beneath the chains. Pam is free, off to the side and on her feet, and Eric is beside her in an instant. She takes his shoulder and he stares at her, not speaking.

The King, meanwhile, has found something new to play with. Something new to him, anyway. Not to me. He twirls the magister's walking stick in his hand, smirking down at its owner, whose skin is starting to smoke where the silver touches it. "You pathetic fool. You blindly do the bidding of others . . . just like humans. It's vampires like you who have been holdin' the rest of us back for  _centuries."_ He holds the walking stick over the magister and, with a hand that has somehow acquired a glove, slides off the stick's silver tip. I have to squint to see what's there, but if I'm not mistaken, it's a wooden point. A wooden stake, really. Conveniently packaged.

And now. Now there is fear on the magister's face.

. . . . .

"Go to your room," Eric mutters as the King busies himself with repositioning the table to stand on its end, so the magister will be vertical. I've come down the stairs, even though Eric sort of told me not to before, but he's brought Pam over here and I had to be closer to her. A piece of me has relaxed now that she's free. It's exhausted, but it's relaxed. Pam's eyes widen when she meets my eyes for the first time, and her crossed arms undo themselves as she looks at Eric with a question on her face. And I remember the bruise.

Eric ignores her. The King, meanwhile, has succeeded in his task. The magister is now displayed before him like a butterfly behind a glass pane.

"Go to your room, Annika," Eric repeats. "It's safe now, go."

I shake my head a little, my tongue gathering up the right words. Does he think I'm afraid? Does he think it will upset me to see . . .  _anything_ bad happen to the magister? I've seen blood and gore, quite a lot of it, and this . . . this is a man I  _hate._  "Eric . . . This concerns me, too."

"Annika,  _do_ as I am  _telling you_ –"

Pam cuts him off, whispering in German, and Eric listens to her, his jaw clenched. Then the moment is broken by a scream. The magister's. The King pulls the walking stick out of his prisoner's gut with a cry of delight, and the magister's head lolls around on his neck as he whimpers to himself. Blood begins to spread from the wound.

And I'm quite fine with it.

I'm more than fine with it.

The yell caught the attention of us all, and Pam keeps watching the magister bleed as the King paces before him, humming, but Eric looks back at me. I hold his gaze.

He turns his eyes to the King and the magister and doesn't tell me to leave again.

The King continues. I think it's like playing to him. It isn't long before the magister's shirt is almost as red as it is white, and absolutely littered with holes. I've sat down by this point, one hand still hooked on the railing above me. I watch.

It's not that I enjoy it, exactly. That's not how I would put it. It's just . . . it's like settling the score. It's like justice. And that, getting justice, that feels good.

"You can dish it out, but you sure can't take it, can you, Magister?" Pam calls out to him after a particularly loud scream drawn from a particularly brutal stab. I smile a little. Only a little. I don't . . . I don't really like the screaming.

Then Eric says, "Let's see how this works out, Pam. We can always taunt later," and I stop smiling completely. I didn't realize the circumstances weren't settled. I didn't realize the magister could still come out of this in a position of power.

The King thrusts the walking stick into the magister's left side, making him howl again, and the queen throws her arms in the air. "Can we hurry this along?" she says, causing her fiancé to turn towards her, his eyebrows politely raised. "I'm getting cold feet."

"Of course, my little puddin'," the King all but purrs before facing the magister again. "This could be so much less painful," he tells him, closing in, "if you just said the  _fucking words!"_ That last part he roars.

"I am bound by duty," the magister rasps as the King draws the queen to him, "to uphold the sacred laws of –"

The King once again jabs the walking stick's wooden point at the magister, not actually breaking skin this time. But that's because the point is aimed right at the magister's heart. All the King would have to do is thrust. "Uh-uh-uh," the King sings. He nods at the stick between them. "Your call."

For a long time, the magister just looks at the wooden point. How many vampires has he killed with it? Only to have it turned on him now . . .

Eventually, he pulls his head up and croaks – that's what he's been reduced to now, a man who  _croaks_ – "I hereby pronounce you . . . husband and wife."

The King pulls the walking stick back with a flourish. "Thank you."

"Yes, thanks," the queen says. "I'm so happy I could bleed."

The King smirks at her and leans forward, giving her air-kisses on both sides of her face. She allows him to. That's something, at least. Maybe.

"Congratulations, your Majesties," Eric says.

"Yes," Pam says sweetly, clapping a few times. "Congrats."

The King walks our way, grinning, on the verge of saying something, but the magister – still chained up – calls after him. Maybe not  _calls._ That implies a certain level of volume the magister can't quite reach at the moment.

"You realize the Authority will never recognize –"

"Its own irrelevancy?" The King whirls around, drawn back into the game. "Well, that's where you and I differ, Magister. You see, I truly believe they will. Soon." He comes up to the magister and lifts the walking stick so the wooden point floats between them. He sniffs it, I think. "Andalusia," he says quietly. "The Iberian Peninsula. Mm . . . Later ninth century, no? That's a long enough time for you to have outgrown your blind allegiance to the Authority and their rule of law . . . There is only  _one_ law: The law of  _nature!_ The survival of the fittest! And we need to take this world  _back_  from the humans, not placate them with billboards and PR campaigns while they destroy it!"

His voice grows more and more heated. His movements more and more agitated. He stands before the magister like a child complaining about the unfairness of the world, but of course, he's the furthest thing imaginable from a child, isn't he?

Eric reaches back, very casually, and rests his hand beside mine on the railing.

"That is not authority!" the King snarls. "That is  _abdicating_  authority!"

"Your Majesty," Eric cuts in. He gestures up the stairs. "Shall we?"

The King looks from Eric to the magister, considering things, I suppose. But then he says, "We shall," and, with a final glance at the magister, he makes for the stairs, causing the queen, Eric, and Pam to do so as well. I also rise, and I've bounded up two stairs when I hear, "Actually, no."

The King has stopped in the middle of the room. I watch, we all do, as he strides back to the magister, extends the walking stick so its point grazes his neck, and tells him, rather grandly, "Say hello to the True Death."

The look of horror barely has time to appear on the magister's face before the King swings the stick in an arc and separates his head from his body. The head bursts into a mess of gore before it hits the floor, and the body follows shortly thereafter.


	19. Reset

Eric asks the King for a minute alone in the bar. The King, who has a newfound spring in his step, grants permission with a wave. I sink into one of the chairs at one of the tables as the King leads the queen – who may never be able to do anything but scowl again – out the front door.

There are no piles of gore up here, unlike in the basement. The King must have gotten rid of the magister's guards by other means. Bribery, I imagine. That's always a choice. Everyone has their price. Eric's told me that before. A few times.

Pam whirls toward Eric the second the door  _thuds_  shut. "What the hell are we going to do now?" She sounds tense, annoyed . . . but not frightened. And  _not frightened_  is a good thing.

Eric is slow to peel his eyes from the exit, but he does so, bit by bit, as he addresses Pam. "I am going to accompany the happy couple back to Mississippi.  _You_  are going to stay here and resume business as usual."

 _"Eric."_  Pam shifts her weight to the side, jutting out a hip and crossing her arms – any other time, that stance might look powerful, like she's sending a message of  _Don't mess with me_ , but that's not how it is now. Her arms are crossed because that's defensive, as far as our brains are concerned – a science teacher told me that once, maybe so long ago I was still in Sweden. And when Pam shifted her weight, she shifted it away from the door. Away from the King. If all of that isn't enough, if I need something truly obvious, I only have to check Pam's face. Her expression hides nothing. I don't think she wants it to. She knows this is serious, and she's not acting otherwise. "The  _magister_  just met the True Death under our roof. We need to talk about this –"

"I can't right now," Eric says, and there's a tone  _beneath_ the tone he's using, the tone that's controlled; there's an extra layer of meaning, mostly hidden, that I notice but can't interpret. I think Pam can, though. She pauses. Her eyes dart to the exit.

Of course. They could be listening.  _He_ could be listening.

Eric takes Pam's shoulders, and I watch as a wall falls inside her. I see it as clearly as I would were it brick and cement and a meter in front of me. "Everything the king said is true," Eric says. "I've taken a place inside his court. I have to go. I have obligations in Mississippi. Annika will tell you what she can, and I will fill in the details as soon as the opportunity arises, I promise. But I  _must_ go."

Pam gazes up at him, eyes searching and open in a way they only ever are with Eric. "How worried should I be?"

Eric hesitates, I think, even if it's only for a fraction of a second. "Just clean up the mess downstairs when you get the chance. That will ensure our safety." He draws Pam into him and kisses her forehead. "I'm sorry I took so long."

Pam smiles, and I look away.

The next thing I know, Eric is coming towards me, pushing up his sleeve. I sit up straighter, expectant of . . . something. Or ready to  _do_  something, maybe. Then Eric's fangs snap out. He bites into himself before pulling my chair out from under the table and rotating it so he's to the side and somewhat behind me, in the perfect position to offer me easy access to his wrist. Which is what he does. "Quickly," he murmurs, smoothing my hair back as I wrap my hands around his arm. "Only a little."

It's my habit to obey Eric, and vampire blood is really, really good. Those are my reasons, good or bad, for drinking from him without hesitation. I'm an entire gulp in before my brain reminds me why he's doing this. My heart twists, and my second gulp of blood is much bigger than my first.

Meanwhile, above my head: "Did the King do that to her?" Pam's voice is a little, just a  _little_ , too sharp. "One of his people?"

"No," says Eric. "I did."

I don't pause my drinking, but I do slide my eyes to Pam. She's looking at Eric like she thinks she might have misheard him. Like he could have just told her he's sold his share of the club and plans to join a monastery. I adore Pam for that look.

Eric tilts his arm away from me. He presses his other hand to my forehead when my mouth tries to follow, keeping me in place. I form fists and shut my eyes, swallowing the last drops of his blood.  _Control yourself._

Eric's hand slips away, and when I open my eyes, he's crouching in front of me. He cups my chin and wipes my lips with his thumb before tilting my head to the side to study the left half of my face. It's healing, I can feel it – all tingles and coolness.

"How long will you be gone?" I cough a little. My voice came out too faint for my liking.

"As long as I need to be." Eric brushes a strand of hair behind my ear and looks into my eyes. His soften, I think, as he does so. "I will be in touch."

My fists move across my lap, find each other, and go from two separate balls to one big one. "I'll go back with you," I make myself say.

Eric is shaking his head before the words are all out. "No."

"I can focus more. I might be able to –"

"You are not going back there with me."

He states this as a fact.  _Decree,_ would be a better term. I fall silent and try to set my face in a way that suggests I want to argue more but am choosing not to. I can't say if I fool him. I would guess I probably don't.

Eric leans forward. He covers my hands with his. Quietly, never looking away, he says, "You've handled yourself beautifully through all of this. You've made me very proud."

I don't say anything back. I don't know  _what_ to say back. My heart swells, glows, and all of that is too distracting and blinding for me to be able to pluck the right words from my head. And now Eric is standing again.

"I'll see you soon," he says. "Listen to Pam. And eat something."

I'm able to nod, at least. Eric's fingers brush my head as he turns once again to his progeny. He doesn't say anything to her, but he doesn't need to. Sometimes they just skip that part.

Then, with a rush of air, he's gone.

. . . . .

I've done my own laundry for as long as I've been able – Eric's always been firm about my cleaning up after myself, no matter how many nannies and maids may have been around me at any given point in my life. The washer and dryer at Fangtasia are beside the refrigerator in the storage room at the end of the hall, past the basement door, and sometimes, when my clothes are in the dryer, I go in there a few minutes before I expect them to be done. When it's running, the dryer is loud and angry and jumps around like there's a genie inside of it, fighting to escape. I like to have my hands on the dryer's top when it finally shuts off. The difference there, the contrast between the dryer as it works and the dryer as it dies, is such a strange thing to be a part of. Not a bad thing or a good thing. Just a unique thing. A unique silence.

I think of that, of the dryer just down the hall, as I sit at the bar and pick at a thawed pasta dish in the wake of Eric and the monarchs. I've slipped into a version of it, you see, a version of that silence. But this version is much bigger – much more real – than the one I'm used to. And I'm wrong, I haven't slippedinto  _it_  – it's slipped over  _me_. I couldn't have stopped it if I wanted to. These past few days have been like nothing I've ever lived through before. Faster, tenser. Scarier. Every minute that passed brought at least a little risk with it, and now, now it's all stopped. The minutes are empty again.

For me, at least. For now.

_But that won't last, will it? How can it? The magister was just murdered inside of your home . . ._

Pam returns from cleaning the basement. Even in her weakened state, it didn't take her long, relatively speaking. That's just one of the perks of being a vampire. Still, by the time she joins me at the bar – dressed in a fresh outfit, her hair brushed and styled – my pasta has gone cold. Pam points at the plate with her chin. "Eric told you to eat."

"I ate what I wanted."

"Funny. I don't recall him specifying that requirement." But she doesn't push the matter further. She settles onto the stool next to me, a bottle of True Blood in front of her. The lid's off already, so I'm assuming she microwaved it in Eric's office or the storage room. Or perhaps she's so depleted she's willing to drink it cold. I doubt that, though. I'm pretty sure that's the vampire equivalent of drinking spoiled milk.

Pam takes a sip, and I push the now-stiff pasta around with my fork and peek at her from the corner of my eye. She doesn't look like she's been tortured for three days. She looks like she's behind on sleep, maybe, but that's it. Vampires bounce back fast. And Pam's a particularly strong vampire.

I twirl the fork. "Is the magister cleaned up?"

"He is . . . I've never been so happy to play housewife." A smirk finds its way onto her lips like a puzzle piece falling into place. "It's very satisfying, filling a garbage bag with the bloody remains of your enemy. Almost makes me want to take up spring cleaning."

The way she says this, I get the sense that Pam's idea of  _spring cleaning_ is a world apart from dusters and brooms and vacuums. I picture Pam dancing through a moonlit field of wildflowers, fireflies and stars sparkling in the sky around her as she drives a stake into a series of vampires who, at this or that point, crossed her. My lips twitch. "I'm sorry you didn't get to kill him yourself."

"That certainly would have been ideal. But – Beggars can't be choosers. At least I got to watch."

Watch  _and_  listen. The magister screaming . . . I try to call up the sound again, but what plays in my head isn't quite right, I know it isn't. It's not like Pam's scream, which I have no doubt will be with me forever. That one came to me in a vision, so maybe my brain recorded it in a way it can't when it just hears something. Or maybe I can't replay the magister's scream correctly because it didn't affect me, one way or another, the way Pam's scream affected me. I enjoyed hearing the magister scream . . . I suppose. I didn't  _not_ enjoy it, that's for certain. It felt like justice, at least the first few times, before it got . . . repetitive. Or something.

"Down there, when Eric told me to go to my room," I say, "you told him something in German, and he didn't make me go after all. What did you say?"

Pam shrugs. Sort of, it's only with one shoulder. And an eyebrow. " _You_ had just said – What was it? –  _This concerns me, too._ I agreed with you, so I told him so."

I press my lips together, wanting to say more, to push for more, but I know enough to not do that unless I have the right words, and, for the second time tonight, I don't. I don't even know what more I want, really. Pam taking my side over Eric's on  _anything_ is a victory in its own right.

Pam glances my way after a minute. "He coddles you too much," she explains, as if she knew I was waiting, which she very well may have. "It doesn't do you any favors, not with the life you're living. The world you're living it in. And frankly, I'm exhausted by all the extra effort it takes to censor the big, bad world for you. The sooner we can shelve that practice, the better."

"I don't ask you to do that."

"No, you don't.  _He_ does. But the last time I checked, you have two working legs. If something's too much for you, you can use them. Besides, I was pretty sure watching Edgington turn the magister into his personal pin cushion wouldn't offend your sensibilities, even if they  _were_ as delicate as Eric thinks."

I don't often have the urge to hug Pam. Sometimes, though, it comes up and takes me by surprise, like when a song I forgot I like starts playing on my iPod. Now is one of those times. I ignore that urge, of course, but acting on it isn't what's important, anyway. Feeling it is pleasant enough.

Pam has drained the True Blood bottle. I'm sure she wants more, but she doesn't move, and I feel the air change, stiffen somehow, right before she asks, "How'd the black eye happen?"

I swallow and push away the pasta. There's no way I'm finishing it. "He told you," I say to the sad little plate, ignoring Pam's gaze as it digs into the side of my head.  _Trying_ to ignore it, I guess would be more accurate thing to say.

"You know what I mean," Pam says. Softly. There's a part of me that can't  _stand_  it when Pam speaks to me softly. I suppose I like routine, and familiarity, and Pam speaking to me softly cannot be traced back to either of those things. It's not our relationship, it never has been, and I've never been bothered by that, really. I mean, maybe a bit when I was younger, when I'd just moved to Louisiana. But that faded quickly, once I understood Pam better, and understood that tenderness and compassion are not, for the most part, who she is. And when it  _is_ who she is, and she  _is_ speaking to me softly – like now – it's a hint that things are not as they should be. That things are not as  _okay_ as they should be.

I flick the end of my fork. The handle falls into a blob of pesto that's starting to crust over.

"Annie," Pam murmurs, and I don't really have a choice then, do I?

I tell her what happened. With the humming. The crown. The visions of Eric in his former life, his human life . . . I tell her, in a voice I think is even, about snapping back to reality inside the King's study, in front of that cabinet with all its artifacts, and about Talbot's reaction. And, finally, about Eric's. When I finish, I realize that at some point I started tapping my left cheek, as if the skin were an animal that might react if bothered enough. But my skin has nothing to say, no complaints to make. Eric's blood healed me.

Eric's blood . . . He didn't give me a lot, and my tolerance must be quite high at this point, but I still don't feel as . . .  _up_ as I might have expected. And I do so love that feeling of  _up._

_And that, Annika, is how drug addicts are born._

Pam traces a fingernail – a filed, shaped, and red-stained fingernail, because somehow her manicure is still intact – along the rim of the empty bottle. Absorbing the story, I guess. But that's a silly way to phrase it, Pam's not the type who needs to  _absorb_ things, but I think she's considering. I kick my feet beneath me, waiting. I wish I were taller.

"He wouldn't have hit you if there'd been another way," she finally says. It sounds like a conclusion. "He never wanted to . . . That's never been an approach he had any interest in taking with you. It must have been the only way. Which means it was the right call."

"I know. He explained. I mean, I knew before, but . . . he explained."

_But did you? Did you know that before?_

"And you really had no control? Against the magic pull of the Viking crown? None?"

" _No._ Or, yes – I had no control. I mean – It wasn't – There was no  _choice."_ I lick my lips. "There was never a moment where it occurred to me that I was doing something I didn't want to do, I was just . . . I was in a trance, I think. Just walking. Because that was . . . That was just the only thing to do." I fold my hands together and squeeze. It feels good to just squeeze things sometimes. "Even when I touched the crown and saw Eric as a human, with his human family. That didn't seem odd, in the moment. Just . . ."

_Amazing. Fascinating. Like I'd fallen into a home I'd gotten lost from._

". . . It was just like watching a movie," I finish. My hands have started grappling with each other, as they're apt to do. "Has . . . Has Eric ever talked to you about them? His family?"

Pam drops her hand from the bottle and scans the empty floor, as if she's suddenly remembered there was something out there she wanted to keep an eye on. "No. They must not have left an impression," she says, and she says it . . . What's a good word?  _Brisk._ She says it  _briskly._

I think about Eric, human Eric with the ruddy skin, smiling as his mother rocked a baby and rolled her eyes, as his father laughed like a man who'd managed to get everything he ever wanted in life. "I saw them, Pam. I saw him  _with_ them. He was happy, he . . . loved them."

Pam huffs out a breath. If it isn't a snort, it's close. "Even if he did, it was a thousand years ago. He was a human. Whatever he felt then, for  _anyone,_ it's all history. Child's play."

I lift my hands and press them together, fingers flat against fingers, palms parallel to my body. The skin beneath my knuckles stretches and stings, and those tiny shots of pain keep the less-controllable part of my mind occupied while the more logical part tries to decide if what Pam just said is worth being mad over. I hear her exhale again, longer this time, not so fiercely, and she shifts in her stool. But before either of us can do anything else a muffled  _thump_ announces someone coming through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. My body tightens all over, because that door leads to the back and no one should be there right now –

But the newcomer is a human woman, only a human woman. One I recognize, as a matter of fact, although from where, I don't know. She's tall and brunette, eyelids heavy with shadow, body light on clothing, especially now that she's rolling out of an oversized jacket and, in the process, confirming that her top is more bra than shirt. She smiles with glossy lips, and I swear Pam starts to purr as she all but floats off her stool, beaming in a way you could call  _pleased_  as easily as you could  _predatory_. In a way that is very vampiric, in other words.

"Yvetta!" Pam moves to the human the way a woman only moves when she knows there are eyes on her body and she's happy for it. "How can I possibly thank you for coming on such short notice? Rest assured, I have plenty of ideas . . . I suppose we'll just have to try them all."

Yvetta replies in another language, holding out her hand. Pam takes the wrist and slides her free arm across the woman's bicep and over her shoulders, murmuring – almost in a sing-song way – words from what I assume is the same language. In the same instant that it occurs to me I don't actually know how many languages Pam speaks – let alone Eric – I also remember how I know Yvetta. Eric introduced her to me a few weeks ago. She's a dancer from Estonia – or, Lithuania, maybe. I don't know. She managed to treat me with both disinterest and condescension in a span of thirty or so seconds, so I didn't bother memorizing her details. She was quite taken with Eric, though. And, it seems, with Pam.

In between sniffs of Yvetta's neck, Pam catches my eye. "What? You thought a few bottles of counterfeit blood would be enough for me to recover from my harrowing ordeal?"

"Of course not." I jump from the stool and head for the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, pasta plate in hand. "By all means, enjoy yourself."

I'm totally genuine. All other things aside . . . I'll never forget the sounds Pam made while the magister had her, the sounds that found me across state lines and made sure I knew just how much she was suffering. The things he must have done to make her make those sounds . . . I don't want to think about them, I  _won't_. But whatever Pam and Yvetta plan on doing tonight – the specifics of it, I mean – I hope they find it positively delightful. Or that Pam does, at least. She's earned it.

I throw out the pasta and retreat to my room. It feels colder than it should. I don't mean physically colder. I mean I get the feeling that my room wasn't expecting me back so soon and it's not prepared to wrap me up and comfort me like I would like it to, and I'll just have to wait until it's ready to do that. I go to the closet and get a black tee shirt and black jeans. Then I go to the dresser and get black underwear, because why not go all the way? I carry the clothes into the bathroom with me and shut myself in the little room. I twist the faucet handle in the shower too far towards the  _H_ and strip as steam swallows me up and erases my reflection from the mirror above the sink. I pull back my blue shower curtain. The water stings my legs as I step over the rim of the tub, then I move forward so I'm right under the head and let my stomach, chest, and newly-healed face get stung, too. My head hangs back, my hair gets heavy, my skin heats and heats.

Then I lower. Sit. Pull my legs into my chest. Feel a puddle form around me. Breathe the steam steadily into me. Breathe it out less steadily.

I would have said no if, when Eric left, someone asked if I was going to cry. I would have said no to the same question as I sat at the bar with Pam while the world wound down. And I would have said no five minutes ago, when I walked into my bedroom of nearly four years only to feel like I was in the wrong place. I would have said no in each of those moments, and I would have been telling the truth each time. What I thought was the truth, at least. I didn't feel like crying. I had no intentions of crying.

But this is a new moment.

The sobs bubble up like someone's set a pot to boil inside of me. My eyes are pouring almost as soon as they well up. It's like something hit me, slammed into me with such power that my insides were shaken and broken and now, now I have to cry out the shattered pieces. It's not my decision to do so, but even as my shoulders shake and shower water splashes into my mouth while I gasp in air, I see a practicality to the crying. It's a release. Something that has to happen to reset me. To get things back to normal. Yes. This is practical. Okay. Okay.

But I'm annoyed by it. I've never been one to cry easily. Since all of this started, though, all of this with the magister and the King and the queen and the Blood and Bill Compton, I've been crying all the time, so it seems. But really, really, this didn't start with the magister, or with Mississippi, or any of that, did it? No. Mississippi, and what accompanied it, was new and frightening and overwhelming, of course it was, but so was Dallas. Yes, maybe when we left for Dallas, maybe that's when I changed into someone who cries too much . . . or even, even earlier, when I found Lafayette in the basement, bloodied and sprawled in almost the same spot the magister would eventually explode over. That was significant, finding Lafayette. Yes. Yes, that was a marker, somehow, even if I didn't know it then. I probably should have, being the  _psychic_ that I am. What kind of psychic doesn't know a sign from the universe when she sees one? A sign of change. Change for all of us, not just me, I'm not silly enough to think that . . .

. . . nor am I silly enough to think the universe sent a sign about anything, anything at all. I know better. I am not a fool. If there is one true thing in the world, it is that. So I've been told.

I saw Lafayette in the basement, and problems started raining down from the sky – and it was coincidence. Just coincidence. And not even particularly astounding coincidence. The universe is random and so are our problems.

And I haven't become someone who cries easily. I've just lately fallen into situations that make it easy to cry. Because life is difficult sometimes. And  _my_  life . . . What did Pam say?  _The life you're living. The world you're living it in._  That's vague, but it's also not. Because we both knew what she meant.

I press my palms into my forehead, burying my fingers in my wet hair. The water pressure in the club is good. The water pounds onto the shower floor forcefully enough to make a fairly thick blanket of noise. I almost can't hear my whimpers. Almost. I can still feel my shoulders jerking, though. And my throat closing and opening as it pleases.

 _Just let it out,_ some calm voice advises from the back of my mind.  _Just let it out. Just let it out . . ._

I let that phrase fill my head and echo back and forth between my ears, and farther, all through my body, really, because as simple as it is, it's soothing. It's not until a few minutes have passed and the sobs have faded and my swollen eyes are more-or-less clear that I realize the voice sounds just like Eric.

I lean against the side of the shower. It's over. It's over. I let it out, whatever  _it_ was, and I feel different, I do. Better. I'm not so . . . crowded, on the inside.

The water doesn't feel so hot anymore. It feels exactly warm enough. Maybe that's because my skin has adjusted to the heat, maybe it's because I've drained the hot water tank. Either way, I've stumbled into a nice moment, a comfortable moment. A moment that's safe enough, calm enough, for me to think – productively – about the issues that have appeared or come to my attention in the past seventy-two hours.

So I do. I let myself.

 _Eric lies to you,_ my brain sort of blurts out, even though it knows that Eric lying to me is not currently a priority, it  _knows_ that – I know that.

Nonetheless.

 _He hides things from you. More than you ever realized. Your mother belonged to a vampire, and he never mentioned it. He_ didn't believe it relevant.  _He said_ she  _wasn't relevant . . ._

_Also, he hit you._

_That's not fair,_ another piece of me argues.  _He had to. You know he had to. You can understand that, you're not a child._

He  _calls you a child all the time, though. When it suits him._

"That's  _not_ fair," that other piece of me repeats, using my tongue this time. "And it's  _not_ important right now . . ."

_The King killed the magister in Fangtasia. The King of Mississippi. The King who has Eric's father's crown, the King who brings out rage, such rage in Eric. The King who Eric has sworn himself to._

Eric has a plan. Eric always has a plan. What is it, though? And what reason has the King given Eric to be so furious? It can't only be because the King has the crown. The King doesn't know what the crown means to Eric, Eric didn't  _want_  him to know .  _. ._

 _The magister. The magister, the magister being_ dead _is the main problem right now, Annika._

_Is it, though? What do you know about vampire politics?_

What do I know . . . I know the magister is – was – an important figure. Vampire judge and  _fucking_  jury, according to Pam. I know the King did something big when he killed him . . .  _Fuck the Authority._ I know the Authority is powerful. Dangerous. Whatever it is, whoever makes it up, the Authority is not something you go against or challenge or disobey or disrespect. I've heard Eric and Pam mention it enough to understand that, even if  _enough_ only adds up to about half a dozen times. And I know that whatever line the King crossed, he crossed under our roof. Fangtasia is tangled up in his scheme. And Eric, instead of trying to untangle the club – untangle  _us_  – has gone home with the King.

_This is bad, isn't it? This is really bad._

_No. Pam was calm. Eric told her you all would be safe._

_Yes, well. Eric lies._

I growl to myself.

_Your mother . . ._

_That doesn't matter right now, that doesn't matter right now, it doesn't, doesn't, doesn't, doesn't!_

But it does. It shouldn't, maybe . . . but it does.

Eric has told me so little about her, this mystery woman I came into existence inside, became a human inside. So little about this person who gave me half my genes, who gave birth to me.  _Your mother isn't relevant,_ Eric said, but . . . no. He shouldn't have said that, he was wrong. How could she not be relevant? How could he believe that? Maybe she wasn't good, maybe he didn't like her, maybe he doesn't like  _me_ wanting to know about her –

–  _Why not? –_

– but she  _is_ relevant. She's a piece of me, a big piece, and I find. Her.  _Relevant_. And if Eric cares about me like he claims to –

_No, no, don't think like that, don't be an idiot._

Eric cares about me. So, he should find my mother relevant, too.

_And maybe he does._

Maybe he does . . .

_Eric lies._

I turn off the shower and reach for a towel. I never actually got around to washing myself, but there are more important matters to attend to. Like the idea that just struck me, struck me and took all my other thoughts hostage. I have to act on it, it's not going away . . . Well, fine, it would. If I ignored it long enough. But I'm not going to do that, because it's a good idea. And also a bad idea. Certainly an idea that could lead to answers. And I'm becoming more and more aware that I don't get all that many of those.


	20. Klein

I suppose on some level I've always known Eric keeps a file on me. He's him, after all. Eric, he's very careful about documentation – precisely-worded contracts, receipts with highlighted dates, photos taken from a dozen different angles of this or that piece of property. Such things were staples of my childhood. Well, not staples. More like sprinkles, tiny details scattered through my everyday life that I paid little attention to because they were in the world of adults or vampires and Eric was in control of all that. My point is, of course he would keep a collection of my records, the various official-looking papers that are a natural side effect, I think, of living in the twenty-first century. Even for someone like me.

But I hadn't  _truly_ thought about this, hadn't had reason to, until after Dr. Ludwig came to the club a few nights ago because of my sleepwalking. Per Eric's request, she took the opportunity to deliver my vaccination records as well. He glanced over them as Ludwig, grumbling, hobbled out his office door, and then he said something to me –  _That wasn't so bad, was it? –_ as he walked to his file cabinet, a giant grey box against the wall. I pointed out that we still didn't know why I had sleepwalked, and  _he_ pointed out that Ludwig doubted any underlying medical condition was to blame, and as he said this, he opened the top drawer of the cabinet. I couldn't see into the drawer from my place on the couch, but I heard papers rustle as Eric moved his hand over the folders or binders or whatever exactly is in there, and he soon found what he was looking for and slid the vaccination records into what must have been their proper place.

I almost asked about it, my file – or  _files_ , even – just out of curiosity. I didn't, though. Something, something inside my body that's a bit more cautious than the rest of me, jumped to my throat and shut a door before my voice could get out. This something didn't tell me its reasons. But it was certain of itself.

And now I stand in Eric's office, the file cabinet before me. It's taller than I am by a foot and twice as wide. Maybe that's why I feel like it's challenging me. Although I don't know if that imaginary challenge would be  _to_  look in the cabinet or  _not_ to look in the cabinet. I just know the stupid thing seems mocking.

I glance at the door. I left it cracked open. I doubt Pam will be finished with Yvetta anytime soon, but if by chance she is, I'll hear her heels clacking down the long stretch of hall between the basement door and the office's.

_Unless she doesn't want to be heard. Or unless she decides she feels like running and simply appears here like a magician._

Neither of those things are likely to happen. If Pam has no reason to be silent, she won't bother. Same thing with running. I'm just worrying, as is the natural reaction when one does something one is not supposed to.

_It's probably Eric's blood making you act like this. You could always blame that._

_Or you could stop hesitating and stop worrying and do what you came in here to do._

Right.

I take hold of one of the chairs in front of the desk and drag it to the file cabinet. The legs of the chair scrape and wail against the concrete as if in protest. I don't listen, though, and once the chair is situated properly in front of the cabinet, I plant my foot in the seat and lift off from the floor. Then I'm tall. Or – less short, anyway.

I curl my fingers around the cold handle of the top drawer and tug, checking behind me, inching myself back as much as I dare to make what room I can for the drawer. Like the chair, the drawer doesn't seem to approve of my moving it, although the sounds it makes are more squeaks than wails. They're s _creeching_ sorts of squeaks, though, as if there is a creature inside the cabinet digging its nails into the metal, desperate to keep the drawer closed and the cabinet's secrets safe.

I suppose I have my answer: Had the cabinet actually been challenging me, it would have been doing so to keep me out. But it hadn't been, because it is a thing, a dead, unthinking thing.

A dead, unthinking,  _loud_  thing. But it only takes seconds to extend the drawer all the way out, or at least close to all the way out. And now I'm looking down at dozens of brightly-colored labels,  _seriously_ brightly colored labels, the neon blues and yellows and pinks that office supplies in my life and in films always seem to drift towards for organizational purposes such as filing. The labels – a few of them paper, more of them translucent plastic – cling to folders, which are mostly the pale yellow kind. The folders are separated into groups by dividers. The first divider has a big red tab that reads  _Banking – LA_ in ink. It's Eric's writing – clear, neat, curved and looping just enough to be pretty. The files in front of that divider are named things like  _Accounts_ and  _Credit,_ nothing that interests me. I slide my hand over the stiff edges of the next set of folders, whose papers scrape my skin like they're trying to grab me.  _Fangtasia,_ says this divider _._ There's a lot of material here, but I don't act on the impulse to peek at it. My fingers keep pace with my eyes as they scan through the records. I only pay attention to the red tabs poking above everything else, declaring categories.

 _Stocks,_ says this tab. _Auto,_ says the next. Then _Paris (Prop.),_ and _Öland –_ My eyes hang onto that tab for too long, but only  _slightly_ so – and  _Legal . . . Taxes (Other) . . . Insurance (Other) . . . ID . . ._

And then I come across a slightly-unique red tab, an edited one, which looks like this:  _Assets_ _(Human)_ _(Non-Vmp)._

That label, or its meaning, doesn't travel easily from the paper to my brain. Or, rather, it travels easily, but it doesn't arrive the same way. It bumps roughly into my thoughts like it expected to fit where it landed but didn't. Slowly, slowly, it settles and seeps into my mind, until it finally means something to me, this label. Something that makes my stomach get a bit too heavy.

The folders stored here are divided further by thin sheets of plastic, creating three subgroups labelled  _Europe, Americas,_ and  _Other._  I go to  _Europe_ first. I lived in Europe first, so I think it makes sense. It has maybe fifteen folders,  _Europe,_ each labelled with a person's name. And none of the names are . . . the name I don't want any of them to be. Two of them  _are_  names I know, though:  _Hagen, Kristoffer_ and _Jakobsson, Samuel._

Oh, I haven't thought about them, either of them, in quite some time.

Kristoffer was a Norwegian ex-soldier hired by Eric as a security guard for the farm. Well, Eric called the men he hired  _security guards._ By the time Kristoffer started, when I was around six, I'd concluded I was probably the only reason there was usually a bulky, stony human somewhere on the premises during any given daylight hour. But Kristoffer lasted longer than any of the others, lasted until I left Öland, and he spoke far more softly than his size suggested he might and had a dry wit he never assumed was above my head. I liked him.

Samuel was the custodian of the farm, a stooped-over, grey-bearded man who sometimes looked forty and sometimes looked sixty. He lived in a stone cottage in the forest behind the house and looked after – looks after, as far as I know – everything on the property not having to do with livestock. What's most important about him, though, is that he's the one who took in Beowulf when I had to come to Shreveport. He agreed to do everything I asked of him, Samuel, and, according to what Eric said he said during their occasional phone conversations, he doted on my rabbit.

_Eric lies._

Frost creeps over my shoulders.  _No. No, not about that, Eric wouldn't have lied about that, not about Beowulf._ Eric felt bad about making me leave Beowulf,  _really_ bad, I could tell that even at eight, and finding Beowulf a good home  _mattered_ to Eric, because it  _mattered_ to me . . . And anyway, all Eric would have had to do was glamour Samuel into taking good care of Beowulf, yes? I don't think he did, but he wouldn't have minded it. Either way. Either way, I trust that Samuel treated Beowulf well. When Beowulf fell ill last year, Samuel even took him to the vet. It didn't make a difference. But he tried. And Samuel buried Beowulf in his favorite blanket, the one I'd wrapped him in when I carried him to the cottage that last day.

_According to Eric._

I wiggle my head back and forth, like my thoughts are cobwebs – with my memories the prey tangled in them – that I can shake away. It sort of works, actually, which is good, because I've wasted precious moments and refuse to continue doing so. I have a task. I have to focus.

I turn my attention to the  _Americas_ section. There are a few more folders here than in  _Europe_ , probably two dozen total, but all are labelled the same way. With people's names, I mean. These names are more familiar, though. I wouldn't say I  _recognize_ most of them, but there are some –  _Caraway, Benjamin_  for instance, or _Herveaux, Alcide –_ that almost feel like echoes when I read them. I've heard them before, I just can't remember when or why. There are a few names, of course, that I  _do_ recognize. Ginger and Lafayette have both earned spots here. And, naturally, so has Sookie. I lift her file between two fingers just to test its weight, to see how much Eric has on her. Not a lot. I'm not sure how I feel about that, nor can I dwell on it at the moment. I drop the file back in place.

When I've read the label of each folder in  _Americas,_ I read them all over again to be certain. Then I am. My file isn't here. Eric doesn't categorize me under  _Assets_ _(Human)_ _(Non-Vmp)._ Of course he doesn't, I knew better, of course I did.

_You've handled yourself beautifully through all of this. You've made me very proud._

That's not something someone says about someone who's just one folder in a subcategory of two dozen.

_You've made me very proud._

I grip the edges of the drawer. That's the fourth time, according to my memory, that Eric's said he's proud of me. And it's not as if I think he's generally  _ashamed,_ it's just . . . there's a difference between not being ashamed and being proud. A significant difference.

But Eric said it directly tonight –  _You've made me very proud._  And now here I am, going through his things.

. . . . .

 _'I_ am  _sorry I went behind your back.'_

_'Do not do it again.'_

_'I won't.'_

_. . . . ._

"Liar," I murmur to myself, squeezing the drawer walls, working myself up to shoving the thing in and walking away from the cabinet forever. I push the drawer a centimeter forward, pull it a centimeter back. It squeaks both times, offering no advice. I push it  _two_  centimeters forward, pull it two centimeters back – except it must be more than two centimeters, even though I didn't mean for it to be, because a new divider comes out of the cabinet enough for its red tab to pop up from being pressed flat by the drawer's ceiling, and when it pops it catches my eye, and when it catches my eye I read  _Annika._

And that's that, then. I pull the drawer as far out as it will go, and there I am. My life, or a lot of it, recorded on paper. I have an entire set, a  _series_ of folders, grouped into subcategories – five of them – by the same kind of plastic sheets as were in the  _Assets_ section. A smile jerks at my lips before I remember that this is supposed to be a serious mission. I check the door, suddenly certain that Pam will burst through it, or even Eric himself. Because although it would make no sense for Eric to return only hours after he left, it would also make perfect sense, because I'm doing something I shouldn't be and  _of course_ he'll know,  _of course_ he'll catch me . . .

The door stays as it is. Open a crack. No more and no less.

I turn back to the files.

The five subcategories, in the order of the closest to the farthest from me, are  _Education, Medical, Travel, Vital Recs,_ and _Misc.._  I'm not sure what  _Vital Recs_ means, so I check the labels of the folders there, because – aside from  _Misc._ – I don't see how any of the other categories might give me what I'm looking for.  _Vital Recs_ is the thinnest of the five subsets, though. It only has two folders –  _A_ and  _B._

I pull out  _A_  and open it. There are two pieces of paper inside. The corners of the one on top have the delicate curl corners get as they age. The words are printed across the page horizontally – or, vertically? I can never remember which is which, but – they're printed parallel to the length of the page, not the width, like words typically are. I rotate the folder so I'm looking correctly at the paper – the  _document,_ this sort of thing is a document.

 _Consular Report of Birth Abroad_ is in big letters at the top, and just below that, finishing the thought but in smaller letters:  _of a Citizen of the United States._ Two seals are on either side of these words, and I've seen them both before, they're seals that mean  _U.S._ : The one on the left is the eagle with arrows in one talon and a branch in the other; the one on the right, a pyramid with a glowing eye where its point should be. Lower down are a few lines of words that are periodically interrupted by long, glaring blanks, in which pieces of information are printed in a different font than that used for the rest of the document – a blander, all-caps font that seems to shout everything out at me. Beginning with my name.

 _This is to certify that_ **ANNIKA NORTHMAN**   _sex_ **FEMALE**   _born at_ **VÄXJÖ, SWEDEN**   _on_ **OCTOBER 26, 1996**   _acquired United States citizenship as established by documentary evidence . . ._

 _I'm an American citizen?_  I blink. I've never really thought about anything like that – _citizenship,_ and such _._ I've always considered myself Swedish, only Swedish. Well, born to Germans.  _Of German descent_ , I suppose. But . . . Swedish.

The last line of the paragraph dates the document to – like me – 1996. Below that is the word  _Parents,_ underlined, with spaces below for the names of a father and a mother. The  _Mother_ side is left blank. The  _Father_ side is not. The  _Father_ side says  _Eric Northman._

_Father. Eric Northman._

Just like that. Just that simply, there's no – I don't know – no footnote, no explanation in parentheses about how he's not  _really_ my father, there's just . . .  _Father. Eric Northman._

His name being listed there is totally useless to me, it tells me nothing I'm trying to find out. And yet I want to take this document, put it in my own file in my own room, protect it and look at it when I need to.

Gently, very gently, I flip the document over to the left side of the folder. The second document – because of course it's a  _document,_ too – is my birth certificate. All of the familiar Annika Northman facts I just read on the birth-abroad paper are here as well, arranged differently and surrounded by Swedish instead of English, but here. My parentage is documented in the same way. There's no mother listed. Just a father.  _Eric Northman._

How is that possible, though? I've never had reason to read about birth certificates, or important records –  _vital_ records – of any kind, so I can't be certain how they work, but surely it isn't as simple as Eric claiming to be my father and some government official marking it down as fact. There would have to be other steps. And there must be other documents. Something about . . . adoption, maybe. And a . . . more typical birth certificate. With the name of the woman who gave birth to me. Yes, there must be more . . .

I replace the birth-abroad documenton top of the birth certificate and carefully close the folder before guiding it back into its proper place. I pull out its twin, the  _B_ folder, which is almost as thin, and open it.

The first words I see are  _Certificate of Citizenship._ They're hard to miss, these words, as I suppose they're technically the title of the top document. Everything on the paper, the certificate, is printed lengthwise, like the birth-abroad document was. And that United States eagle is here, too, stamped in between  _of_ and  _Citizenship_ like it simply  _had_  to be at the center of things _._

And on the middle-left of the paper is a picture of me. A small picture. Of a much-younger me. I'm seven, I would guess, maybe eight. I can't tell where I am in the picture. I seem to be standing in front of a wall, just a plain, off-white wall. I'm smiling. Smiling in a way that's one muscle shy of a smirk. Like I know something someone else doesn't know. Like I know something future me, standing in Fangtasia and rifling through things she shouldn't be rifling through, doesn't know.

Beside the picture is a paragraph printed in an almost cartoonish sort of fake cursive, its sentences broken up – also like in the birth-abroad document – by long blanks stamped with my details. The paragraph states that ANNIKA NORTHMAN applied for and was granted United States citizenship, thanks to Section 341 of the Immigration and Nationality Act, on November 16, 2004.

I read the paragraph again.

And again.

Because being granted U.S. citizenship in 2004 thanks to an immigration act is a very different thing than being born abroad into U.S. citizenship in 1996.

I push the drawer back into the file cabinet just enough that I can step down from the chair. I can't put my reasons for needing to do that into words, at least not well. They're not . . .  _bad_  reasons, exactly. I'm not frightened, or angry. I'm . . . Okay, I'll give one word:  _Imbalanced._

I settle on the couch, the folder open on my knees. I pinch the corner of the citizenship certificateand turn it frontside-down as I shift it to the left half of the folder, revealing the document beneath it, which is titled  _Final Adoption Decree._

I take a deep breath. I almost want to say  _I knew it,_ but . . . I wondered about an adoption document when I was looking at the  _A_ folder. Finding one in the  _B_  folder . . . I'm not sure that counts. It seems to me that the  _A_ folder might have very little to do with the  _B_ folder.

The  _A_ folder, for instance, contained no documents referring to an Annika with a surname that was not  _Northman._ But the  _B_ folder has this decree, and this decree refers to one Annika Pamela Klein.

This Annika – sex female, birthday October 26, 1996 – was apparently adopted in Sweden by Eric Northman, a citizen of the United States, on October 26, 2004. Mr. Northman was judged to be capable of providing for the child's mental and physical needs and the adoption was decidedly in the best interests of the child, who would henceforth be known as Annika Northman.

"Annika Pamela Klein . . ."

 _Klein . . ._ Klein? _I couldn't have been a_ Klein _and never known. I couldn't have been_ adopted  _and never known. None of this is true. None of it_ can  _be._

"None of it can be," I mutter, and saying it out loud makes it more obvious. Even if there was an odd little bump in my voice. Even if my tongue is a bit dry and my palms a bit wet.

There are still more documents. Two more. The first of the two, though, kind of turns out to be the same document as the adoption decree. Really, there's no  _kind of_ about it – it  _is_  the adoption decree, just in Swedish. The original form, I imagine. The last document isn't really unique, either. It's my birth certificate again. Just in English. It's  _not_ the original form, in other words. But it says all the same things the certificate in the  _A_ folder said. It lists Eric as my father. It leaves out all the same things, too – it has that strange, sad, infuriating gap of nothingness where my mother's name should be.

There is one more thing in the folder, though. Not a proper document, just an index card taped in the back. Written on it are the letters  _SSN,_ a phone number, and  _B. Caraway._ That's all arranged in one tight block of information, but there's another line on the card's bottom edge:  _Only if unavoidable._ All of it is in Eric's hand.

B. Caraway.  _Caraway, Benjamin._  One of the assets. His number has made it into my files, so . . . maybe I should care. Maybe I should – well, not  _should,_ but  _could_ – call him. Maybe it's worth trying. Just trying.

_Hello, Benjamin Caraway? This is Annika Northman – or perhaps you know me by my other name, Annika Pamela Klein? I'm the human of Eric Northman, with whom you seem to have had dealings in the past. You may not remember that, of course, because it's entirely possible he glamoured himself out of your mind. If he didn't, though, please tell me – has he ever mentioned anything about my mother? Oh, and if he has, don't worry about him finding out you spoke to me about it. Eric's not the type to get angry over silly little things like that. So, please, Ben – may I call you Ben? Tell me what you know, won't you?_

I close the folder and rest my hands on the cover, so dull and deceiving. Just  _blank._  It's a smart design, I think, a design that mumbles to all passerby that this folder couldn't possibly contain anything of interest, so pay it no mind, no, just be on your way.

But now I know better.

Annika Pamela  _Klein_.

Annika  _Pamela_  Klein _. . ._ The name is so clearly a creation of Eric's, of course it is.  _Pamela._ Eric would have done that just to get a reaction from Pam. One that probably didn't go further than an eyeroll. That decree, wherever it came from and whatever it's for, is important enough that Eric kept it all this time. And it's about me. It might not be  _real_ , but it's  _about_ me, it  _concerns_ me. And Eric saw it as an opportunity to make a joke. An opportunity to make Pam roll her eyes.

Almost certainly.

But . . . I have to be  _completely_  certain.

After I've replaced the  _B_ file, pushed the drawer back in the cabinet, and positioned the chair in front of the desk again, I sit in Eric's spinning, cushioned office seat and wait while his computer starts up. I use the time to stare at the door. I forgot, these last few minutes, that I was supposed to be worried about getting caught. Now the worst of my misbehavior is past. Technically I'm supposed to ask before I use Eric's computer, but if he found out he wouldn't do worse than scold me. And even that would probably only be on a bad day. Of course, we're in the middle of a stretch of bad days, aren't we? Oh, well.

_Certificate of Citizenship._

_Consular Report of a Birth Abroad . . . of a Citizen of the United States._

_Final Adoption Decree._

_Father. Eric Northman._

_Mother._

_Mother._

_Mother._

The computer monitor flashes awake with a burst of blue, displaying a picture of the sky during the day when there are so few shadows and you can see things clearly. I click open the browser I'm supposed to use, the one that takes me straight to Google, and I type –  _jab_ , that's really what I do – I jab out the name  _Annika Pamela Klein._ I hit the search button before I remember what Eric taught me about putting quotation marks around multi-word terms, so I'm not surprised when the Internet throws back at me what it claims is over a million answers. I return to the box, add the quotations around the name, and try again.

 _No results found for_ _'Annika Pamela Klein,'_   Google tells me. _Search for_ _Annika Pamela Klein_ _(without quotes)?_

In a moment of frustration, exhaustion, and anxiety, I come dangerously close to sticking my tongue out at the computer. I catch myself, though, I catch myself and pin my tongue between my teeth. Reverting to my five-year-old self is highly unlikely to improve the situation I'm in – to improve  _any_  of the situations I'm in.

I release my tongue, and it snaps, "Go to hell," at the monitor. Because that's far more helpful.

Annika Pamela Klein. Just a joke. Just a lie to print on a fake document Eric wanted for reasons I don't know. I press my knuckles into my eyeballs.

 _You_ could  _call Caraway. There's no harm in at least calling him. Or you could go back to the file cabinet, you never checked that_ Misc.  _section, did you? Maybe the_ Vital Recs  _part has all the questions, and the_ Misc _. part has all the answers._

I envision a thick book with the word LAW stamped onto it, resting amongst all my records in the back of the cabinet and just waiting for the day I come and pick it up and read all about adoptions and birth certificates and guardianship and fraud. And oddly enough, a giggle is playing in the back of my throat when I hear the creak of the door.

"So thoughtful of Eric, remembering to grant you permission to play on his computer even in the thick of political warfare."

Pam's entrance kills my almost-laughter. But that's probably a good thing. There's good laughter and there's bad laughter. This was more of the latter. I draw my legs into my chest and hug them as Pam walks to the closet in the corner.  _Saunters_ , I should say. She saunters a lot. "I'm not playing, I don't play," I say, eyeing her feet as she swings open the door. They're in sneakers. I never would have been able to hear her coming. "And I don't know what you and Eric are worried I'll find on the computer."

"Exactly." Pam reaches into the neat row of clothing and plucks a hanger draped in both pieces of a pink tracksuit. She carries the outfit to the desk, tosses it across the chair I was standing on five minutes ago, and unzips her jacket. When she shrugs it off, it's rather difficult not to notice that she's wearing a bra but no shirt, and I'm toying with the notion of mentioning it when something bigger than she is snaps into existence at her side. I lose my breath, I almost fall out of the chair, and – Here's the thing about hearts: There's no convincing a heart it doesn't need to pound once it gets that first signal to do so. So even after my brain has registered that the something-bigger-than-Pam is Eric, my heart thuds in my chest in a manner almost like applause.

Granted, the first thing my brain does after registering Eric's face is register the blood splattered across him, and that doesn't go a long way towards calming my heart. He's wearing an unbuttoned button-up shirt I don't think is his, and the fabric is dark and striped and his torso is smooth and white but the streaks of red,  _so many_ streaks of red, show up perfectly well on both.

In his hand is his father's crown.


	21. The V-Feds

"We need sanctuary," Eric says.

The jacket slips from Pam's arms. "Oh my god, what have you done?" She sounds more bewildered than frightened, which should comfort me, maybe, but it's too late – Fear has already found my heart and coiled around it, squeezing, squeezing, like a snake with prey.

And Eric, Eric paces. With fervor. He wants to do too much, move too much – he  _feels_ too much to be in a room this small, it can't quite contain him, and his energy is making me vibrate – making me tremble. "I staked a vampire. The lover of Russell Edgington." With his next step, the crown happens to catch the light of the overhead fluorescents and glint some of it my way, almost like a wink.  _Remember me, Annika? We're old friends, aren't we?_

The lover of . . .

"Talbot?" I accidentally mumble.

Pam drowns me out, anyway. "Are you  _insane –"_

" _WHERE_ can we  _GO?!"_

Bellowing, Eric is bellowing, the air  _shakes,_  and I pull my legs into me like I'm trying to fit somewhere small. From my dry mouth comes the word, "Eric," and that's it, and it's weak and little, and I don't know why I say it or what I want, I don't, but it gets my guardian to turn my way and snap, "You are  _fine_!" before swallowing and repeating, far more calmly, "You are fine."

But my heart says something different. My heart says,  _Something bad is going to happen,_ because I don't think it heard Eric, I think it's too occupied by being strangled. I lay my hand on my chest, then dig my fingernails into my skin.  _Something bad is already happening._

"A human home would be safest!" Pam stutters, which is oh so strange, because Pam doesn't stutter. "We've both been invited into Sookie's – "

"No!" Eric says before the name has finished leaving Pam's mouth. "That's out of the question – Annika." He stops at the end of the desk and points at something over my head. He speaks, but . . . I miss it. I hear his voice, I see his lips move, but the words somehow don't make it to the part of my brain that handles those sorts of things, probably because my brain, my brain is quite crowded at the moment, quite crowded and hectic, and clogged with fog, too, freezing thick fog that's floated up from my chest and all the feelings there – the  _fear –_

I squeeze my eyes shut.  _We need sanctuary – I killed the lover of Russell Edgington – Russell_  Edgington, the King, who glows with power, who killed the magister, who has said or will say  _'We-will-eat-you-after-we-eat-your-children' – We need sanctuary_  – sanctuary –

"Sanctuary?" I breathe.  _There is no sanctuary from someone like that. There is. No. Sanctuary._

"You never panic," I hear Pam say. To Eric. Strong Eric. "Should I be panicking?"

My chair moves on its own, and I gasp and open my eyes to see that Eric has gotten closer, much closer, he stretches over me and pulls back with a roll of paper towels. He tears one off and uses it to dab blood from his face. Is Pam right? Is he panicking? He's contained. But he's vibrating. And he bellowed. And . . .  _Panic_. That word is like a ticking clock, isn't it? Pan- _ic,_ pan- _ic,_ pan- _ic._

_Something bad is happening._

_And you thought the worst might over. Stupid little girl. Little fool._

Pan- _ic,_ pan- _ic,_ pan- _ic._

Far away, maybe from outside the room, something clatters against the cement floor. Eric looks to the door. I don't, I keep looking at him. His lifts his chin and speaks smoothly, steadily, deceptively –

–  _He's_ lying _, he's panicked –_

"Ginger, dear. Where do you live?"

"Across the river in Bossier – why?" comes Ginger's familiar voice, confused but not hesitant. I didn't even know she was here, she must have just gotten here, they must have –

_They?_ I try to chase that thought, to pin it and find out where it came from, but it's too fast and slippery and I lose it to the rest of my mind.

"We need your house," Pam says. Eric sets the crown on his desk while his other hand finds my shoulder, flattens against my back, presses. "Now-ish," I think Pam adds, and Eric stops pressing and takes a handful of my shirt and pulls me to my feet. I stumble, he holds me up, he clasps his hand onto the side of my face and tilts my head back, but when I try to give him what he wants, try to meet his eyes, I find they've found something behind me. I follow where they point, and there's the computer monitor.

_No results found for_ _'Annika Pamela Klein.'_ _Search for_ _Annika Pamela Klein_ _(without quotes)?_

Eric's jaw is set when I turn back to him. Was it set before? In quite that way? He looks down at me with an expression that could be hard for any number of reasons, but before either of us can make another move Ginger asks, "Is this because of the V-Feds?" and with that short question jabs into this moment between Eric and I and pops it like a bubble. His hand falls from my face, rests on my shoulder, and finally slides down my arm all the way to his side. He and Pam are both still.

The words  _Annika Pamela Klein_  politely step out of the way and allow  _The V-Feds_ the space at the front of my mind, but, as chaotic as my mind is, no other words or even pictures leap forward to match with the term  _V-Feds_. I don't who they are – but Eric and Pam do. They're talking with their eyes. It's not a pleasant conversation, and it ends quickly.

Eric takes off the blood-spattered shirt and finds a plain black racerback in the closet. Pam finishes putting on her tracksuit. That all happens in about twenty seconds, with neither moving as fast as possible, but not slowly, either.  _Methodically_ , might be a fitting term. Methodically and wordlessly. Ginger asks if they want her to tell the V-Feds anything. Ginger asks what's going on. Ginger asks what kind of trouble they're in. Ginger is ignored three times. And I stand quietly behind the desk and do nothing at all.

Eric catches my eye on his way to the door. "Stay here . . . No. Come. Stay behind us and don't speak." He exits, and Pam, after a glance in my direction, follows. And I follow her, past Ginger, who whisper-asks loudly if I know what's happening and, for her trouble, is ignored a fourth time.

Pan- _ic._ Pan- _ic._ Pan- _ic._

Like a ticking clock. Like a thudding heart.

Down the hall, Eric pushes through the door to the bar, as does Pam, as do I. I have to uncross my arms to do so, and then I make them stay uncrossed, because I really wasn't crossing them so much as hugging myself.

_There is. No. Sanctuary._

There's a man to my left, a silhouette in front of a glowing-red jukebox. I narrow my eyes to see him better, and at first, because of what he's wearing – a helmet, sunglasses-or-goggles, and head-to-toe padding – I think he's some sort of soldier. But that's not right. His outfit – his uniform – is too dark, absolute black, I think, not green or camouflage.

But he's holding a rifle like a soldier might.

My next step forward is taken at an angle, carrying me away from the not-soldier, but that's no use. There are a dozen others just like him spread across the floor. Half are scattered around the room's edges –  _blocking the exits,_ a voice in my head whispers – and half of them are lined up like fenceposts from the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, which we just came through, out to the tables – two here, two here, two here. It's like a runway.

And at the end of the runway, a woman sits in a chair. No, rises from a chair. I can't see more than her shape – the room is currently lit only by the floor lights on the stage behind her and the emergency lights above the bar to my right. As Eric halts in between the first pair of not-soldiers, the woman strides towards us exactly,  _exactly_ as if the runway really  _is_  a runway, as if she's in a fashion show, as if she  _owns_ the place.  _Clack, clack, clack,_ go her heels – quite angrily – against the floor, until she plants them in a spot just out of Eric's reach, a spot where a beam of light happens to fall and really lets me see her. Lets me recognize her. Nan Flanagan. The vampire from the American Vampire League – the vampire who  _leads_ the American Vampire League, or at least who most often speaks in public on its behalf. Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight updo. Her lips are too red, her eyes are too lined – and as cold as their ice-blue color would suggest.  _Severe._ She defines the word.

And she's here for us.

Eric and Pam are both between Nan Flanagan and me, Pam standing to the right and a stride behind Eric. I inch closer to her as Eric says, "I'm sorry, Ms. Flanagan, the bar is closed."

"Thank you, I already ate." Nan Flanagan's voice is flat. Her eyes flicker to the closest not-soldier and she adds, "True Blood only, of course . . ." before focusing again on Eric and sort of twitching her head – I think it's her way of shaking it. "Can't stay out of trouble, can you? The VRA is two states away from ratification. I should be kissing asses in Oregon, not cleaning up after you in  _fucking_ Louisiana."

"Oh, I promise, there is nothing amiss in my area –"

" _Shut_  up," Nan Flanagan spits. "You're making my head hurt – Officers!" She tosses that word like a rock into water, and ripples roll through the room, stirring the not-soldiers, none so much as the one to Eric's left. He steps closer to my guardian. Nan Flanagan puts a hand on her hip, juts her chin up, and says, "Silver him."

The not-soldier presses something into Eric's neck.

"No," I breathe, and why I step forward, what I think I'm going to do, I have no idea, but Pam jerks me back into place before I can find out. Eric, meanwhile, starts to growl. Only – it's not a growl, of course, growls are ferocious and threatening. This is a sound that sounds like a growl but is really just the sound of someone holding back a scream. Smoke curls up from Eric's skin, and one knee buckles beneath him, and that's when the growling swells into a yell, a roar – no. Roaring is for times of attack. This is a howl.

Eric collapses, and behind me, Ginger screams at the top of her lungs, screams in utter terror, screams in a way that makes me hate her, because she gets to do it and I don't. I don't have that luxury. All I get to do is stand here with my forearm pressed against my mouth and Pam's hand clamped over my shoulder. Stand here and watch smoke rise from Eric, listen to him make sounds  _he is not supposed to make_. Stand here and try – desperately try – to rip the silver-something from the not-soldier's hand with my mind.

But I fail.


	22. Statement

Twenty minutes later, Eric is sitting in a chair at the center of the bar. Not at a table, just alone. Another chair, empty, is set across from him. The not-soldiers – the officers – arranged it that way, and now they stand around us, faces grim, looking like members of an audience who didn't want to come to the show in the first place. And who dressed extremely weird.

Eric's elbows are on his knees, his hands together, his eyes on the floor. He's too far away from me. I'm sitting on a barstool, which he directed me to, and I'm with Pam – she's leaning against the bar beside me, arms crossed and a foot propped on the rail beneath her – and that's something, sure. But I want to be with Eric. I want it to be okay, like it was when I was little, to crawl into his lap because I'm frightened. When did that stop being okay?

_It wouldn't have been okay when you were little, either. Not like this, with people around. With the stakes this high . . ._

The EMPLOYEES ONLY door flies open, making me jump. Flanagan re-enters the room and announces, "The downstairs is clean."

"Well," Eric says, "I told you there was nothing." On the surface, his tone is polite and patient. I know him, though, so I can hear the deeper things. The things nowhere near as tame.

"It's been  _wiped."_

"Well, I'm a Virgo. I like to be neat."

Flanagan strides to the chair across from him and grips its back like she's hoping to choke it to death. "Your screeching fang-cushion of a barmaid, who's been glamoured so much she can't even remember her own last name,  _does_ know that no one ever goes down there with so much as a mop and a promise. And when I tried to find out what your little porcelain doll over there –" She nods at me – "knows about it, I made the oh-so interesting discovery that she can't be glamoured. A fact you've failed to report to the Authority."

I wring my hands. After she had Eric silvered, Flanagan ordered Ginger and I be brought to the back. She put Ginger in the office and me in my room and spoke to me first.  _You're the psychic?_ she asked immediately, and when I said yes, she bent to my level and said,  _Push back your little finger until it breaks._

It took one second for me to realize that this was a test, that she was trying to glamour me. By the second after, I was wondering if the right thing to do was actually try and obey her. Two seconds, though, is apparently too long of a hesitation when you've supposedly been glamoured to do something. Just like that, Nan Flanagan knew one of my biggest secrets. But it didn't stop her from asking me questions.

. . . . .

_"Do you know anything about someone called "the magister"?_

_"No."_

_"You don't?"_

_"No."_

_"I don't feel like you're cooperating with me, Annika."_

_"You said to answer the questions. I'm answering the questions."_

_"You should be careful how you speak to me, little girl. I'm being nice. I don't have to be."_

_". . . You're two states away from ratification."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"Your bill. It's two states away from ratification, I heard you say that. The AVL wants to improve vampire-human relations. I don't think it would look very good for Nan Flanagan to hurt a human girl."_

_"You're absolutely right. And if you were the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Joe America from Apple Pie, USA, I wouldn't dream of laying a finger on you. But you're not. You're the illegal pet of a vampire currently under investigation by the_ Authority.  _And considering you couldn't publicize anything I might do to you without shining a spotlight on Mr. Northman, I'm confident that I could break every bone in your body and he would be the first in line to stop you from telling the world. Don't threaten me, kid. You have_ no  _leverage."_

_". . . I've never heard of the magister."_

_"What can you tell me about Russell Edgington?"_

_"Who?"_

_"The King of Mississippi."_

_"Is Mississippi the one by the Great Lakes?"_

. . . . .

Flanagan ordered me led back to the bar. She didn't try to . . . force me to tell her the truth, in spite of what she said. I don't know what to make of that. But she seemed sure she was going to find out what she wanted to find out. One way or another.

When I was brought through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door again, Eric already sat in the chair he sits in now, and he held his arm out to me. I made myself walk, not run or even hurry, across the room. When I reached Eric, I didn't hug him, of course, I knew better. But I squeezed his leg with both hands as he looked me over.

. . . . .

" _You okay?"_

" _Yes, but she knows I can't be glamoured, she tried to and I didn't know what to do –"_

" _It's okay. Everything's going to be fine . . . Go sit by Pam."_

. . . . .

And I did, and I do, and Eric sits a kilometer away from me, speaking about me as if I'm not here to a bitch who doesn't care that I am.

"I reported it to the Authority when I gained possession of a psychic, as was my obligation," he says. "But that was my  _only_ obligation. She is mine, I'm not required to offer updates on her development."

I glance at Pam, who keeps her eyes ahead. Eric never mentioned having to tell the Authority about me. I know vampires and psychics have always been entangled, but it never occurred to me that the very government of the vampire world might have rules in place to keep track of the psychics in its reach.

"Most would consider it a courtesy," says Flanagan.

"I value my privacy."

Flanagan heaves a sigh. "Quite stupidly, she gave me nothing. And I didn't make her, which you can thank me for later. The screamer, on the other hand, made it clear that your basement is not, by default, as sterile as an operating room. The way it is now."

"It doesn't  _prove_ anything," Eric says, stretching each syllable out to twice its normal length.

"If only we had a magister to decide that."

Silence. Eric, his face stone, gazes up at Flanagan, who grins. Her teeth seem to be forcing their way out of her mouth. "Relax," she says . . .  _coos._ "It's not like you killed someone."

I make myself take a long, deep breath, because my heart is trying to pound, and I can't let Flanagan hear it doing that.

"Just need your official statement. That's all." Flanagan turns to one of the not-soldiers and waves a hand. Eric uses the moment to exchange a look with Pam, and stupidly, stupidly, I feel a wave of jealousy.

Flanagan settles into her chair while two of her men bring forth . . . equipment of some kind. Cameras? They look more like small spotlights, held almost level with Flanagan's head by metal rods that split halfway down into three legs. "Webcams," she explains, pulling something tiny from her pocket and slipping it into her ear. "For the Authority."

They buzz to life, the webcams, and snap their glass eyes onto Flanagan, like long-necked birds startled by a noise from her direction. "Members of the Authority," she begins, speaking differently now, smoother and a bit louder, the way she does on television. She gazes into the webcam on her left. "It's Nan. Can you hear me? . . . Good. As regards to the matter of the disappearance of our magister, last known whereabouts this . . .  _dump_ in Shreveport, Louisiana, you have before you Eric Northman, Sheriff of Area Five."

More buzzing, and now the webcams are directed at Eric. He inclines his head.

"Sheriff Northman. At what time and under what circumstances did you last see the magister?"

Eric slides his gaze from one camera to the other before resting it on the floor. He opens his mouth, looks again to Flanagan, and answers, "Roughly eight hours ago, when Russell Edgington decapitated him in my basement."

Pam inhales sharply and straightens to her full height. I don't move at all. I don't even breathe.

Flanagan tilts her head forward. "What did you say?'

"Russell Edgington killed the magister," Eric tells her. "As the Authority may or may not be aware, the magister was under the impression that I was guilty of selling vampire blood. And while I do not deny it, I was doing so on the orders of Queen Sophie-Anne. The queen framed me, however, and although I told the magister I was being set up, I could not absolve myself of guilt without committing treason. The magister occupied my nightclub and took my progeny hostage to compel me to bring him the guilty party, at which point I travelled to Mississippi to seek the aid of King Russell Edgington. But I soon discovered that he was not what he appeared to be. Rather, he was much more."

"What do you mean?" prods Flanagan. I can't tell what she thinks of this. She's narrowed her eyes, that's the most telling change in her expression, and that could mean a lot of things.

Eric takes a deep breath. His hands part and move as he speaks, they way they do when he's explaining something complicated to me, the viewpoint of a philosopher or the way a war started hundreds of years ago. How lovely it would be to sit together in his office right now, just him and me, talking about books and history like he likes to and like I'm good at. Instead he begins to lay out an explanation of tonight's events for Nan Flanagan and the nameless, powerful vampires on the other side of the camera.

But also for Pam and me.

"There's a pattern," he says. "The Turks told folktales of shapeshifting jackals at the fall of Constantinople. The Aztecs were decimated by disease from the Conquistadors' war dogs. Each time, there's been wolves fueled by vampire blood."

Like the werewolf, the King's werewolf, that I saw that night at Sookie's, struggling at the end of Eric's arm and snapping his teeth at my guardian's bullet wound.  _Give me a taste, fucker – c'mon –_

"I nearly found him in Augsburg in 1945," Eric continues. "His wolves were in the service of the Wehrmacht."

Wait . . . is he still talking about the King?

"He disappeared after the war, and I . . . I thought he finally met the True Death." Eric gives one single, definitive shake of his head. "Now he's returned."

Flanagan crosses her legs, looping her arms around her knee. "Do you know why?"

"In times of conflict, Russell Edgington inserts himself into the affairs of men."

He  _is_ talking about the King . . .

"To what end?" Flanagan asks.

. . . in fact, he  _nearly found_ the King – probably just Edgington then – all those years ago in Augsburg, which is in Germany, and if he  _nearly found_ him that means he was  _searching_ for him . . .

"He claims it is to prevent humans from destroying the planet and themselves, and thus  _our_ food source," says Eric.

Flanagan's spine stiffens. Her words sort of do as well. "But Tru Blood changed all that. Humans are no longer food for us. The Great Revelation –"

"Russell Edgington opposes the Great Revelation. He doesn't want to coexist with humans, he wants to subjugate them."

"The Authority –"

" _FUCK_ the Authority!"

I use my right hand to squeeze my left, hard, and check Flanagan's face. It's appropriately taken aback, and Eric shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have spoken like that –

But he almost whispers what he says next. "Russell's words. Verbatim."

Flanagan adjusts the device in her ear. She doesn't speak for a few seconds, so she must be listening. "This is why he killed the magister?" she finally says. Relays. Her voice has taken on a higher pitch, I'm certain of it.

"No, he killed the magister because the magister defied him. He kidnapped Queen Sophie-Anne because she refused him. Now, if the Authority or the AVL stand in his way . . . Well . . ." Eric lifts and drops his shoulders, although no more than a centimeter.

"These are treasonous allegations," Flanagan says after a moment. "Why didn't you report this?"

"Oh, I should have. But the Authority has existed for only a few hundred years. My history with Russell Edgington goes back nearly a thousand."

And I see it again – Eric with his family, Eric as a human, Eric smiling at his mother as she rocks a baby, as his father looks on with pride, his father who is wearing the crown that ten centuries later will lead me down Russell Edgington's staircase and into one of the worst moments of my life. And I see Eric in front of that cabinet again, the crown in his hand, staring at it and finding something there that even I, the psychic, could not.

And that werewolf at Sookie's, with the brand on his neck. The brand that drove Eric to tear  _into_ the neck.  _It brings back many memories,_ he told Sookie later.  _Unpleasant ones._

Dread fills my stomach to the brim, and I keep looking at Eric because it would feel wrong, somehow, not to, but something fundamental inside of me wants to cover my eyes and ears and keep the story I know he's about to tell out of my life. But that would be cowardice.

"My family was massacred," Eric says quietly, sending a dagger into my chest. "All of them. By wolves. I managed to kill one, and I watched him change into a man at the end of my sword. And these wolves –" His teeth clench – "they're the  _same_. Sweden, Germany, here . . ." He presses his elbows back into his knees, folding his hands in the air. Then he looks directly into the camera to his right. "With all respect," he says steadily, "I did not report Russell Edgington to you because I want him to die at my own hands." He leans closer. "I have waited  _a thousand years_  for this."

The webcams, as if uncomfortable being looked at, whip back to Flanagan. "Yes," she answers someone. "Yes, I understand. I'm flying immediately to Portland. Thank you." She tugs out her earpiece. Eric sits up tall, and I mimic him before I know what I'm doing.

"What?" he asks, palms facing up. "Is that it?"

Flanagan stores the earpiece in her pocket and huffs out a breath, popping her eyebrows as she does so. "The Authority will review your statement against the, frankly,  _strong_  possibility that I've lost an entire night's worth of air time promoting the VRA in order to listen to a load of bullshit."

My hands roll into fists. I fucking.  _Hate._ Nan Flanagan.

"But," says the twisted, ugly bitch, " _some_  do believe in a fair hearing . . . Ugh. Americans."

She rises. So does Eric, although Flanagan's already turned her back by the time he does so. He calls after her – calls her  _Ms. Flanagan,_ as if she actually deserves any form of respect – and she faces him, lips pursed. "Russell Edgington is a threat to our very  _existence_ ," Eric tells her.

"But he is a  _king._ One who just donated half a million dollars to the same American Vampire League you say he's trying to bring down." She cocks her head. "Weird, huh?"

Eric, in light of this new information – this new  _bad_ information – says nothing. But I don't know what he  _could_  say, not to Flanagan. Not to the Authority, who I've decided I hate, too.

"Cancel your plans," Flanagan says as two not-soldiers collect the three-legged webcams. "This place is on lockdown. Until the Authority makes its ruling." With that, with  _nothing more than that,_ Nan Flanagan turns and power-walks from the club, her dozen henchmen pooling around her and squeezing through the door like a giant black raindrop.


	23. Flicker

 

 

 

Eric tells me, softly but without leaving room for debate, to go get ready for bed. And  _bed_ is a ludicrous suggestion, but for Eric's sake – and fine, also for my own, because I'm more than a little out-of-sorts at the moment and could use a break – I retreat to my room. It still smells like Flanagan. Her perfume is floral, I suppose, but floral in the way weeds are floral. In my dresser I find my giant Fangtasia tee shirt. I then close myself in my bathroom, change clothes, comb my hair, wash my face, brush my teeth. It's all automatic, which is fine.  _Automatic_ means  _No thinking required,_ and not thinking can be nice. It certainly is at the moment. My brain is –  _jarred,_ I think you could say. Jarred and exhausted. My stomach, meanwhile, is twisted, and my chest is worn from holding my heart all night, like a too-small cage for a wild bird.

When I come out of the bathroom, Eric is there, not pacing when I see him but probably having just stopped doing so. He has a bottle of water in one hand. The other he holds out to me, palm-up, so I can see the pair of little white pills I'm about to be made to take.

"Two?"

"It's safe," he says. "I asked Dr. Ludwig about the maximum dose after you sleepwalked. All of the club's doors have been chained shut, by the way. So we don't have to worry about that tonight."

I study the pills. I've never noticed, but they have symbols stamped into them, although too faintly for me to read from where I stand. I could pick one pill, hold it closer, figure it out. But instead I look up and try to figure Eric out, like I've tried to do so many times before. His eyes are soft but dragged down by the rest of his face. He doesn't often look his age, his  _real_ age, but he does tonight.

"What are they going to do to you?" I whisper.

"The Authority? Nothing too severe. I might have to pay a fine. At worst, they'll strip me of my position, but I doubt it will come to that. I'm indispensable. They know it." With that last part, he pushes up one corner of his mouth in what I suppose is a smile. But smiles aren't made like that, they aren't really  _made_ at all. If they're real, they just happen. I would almost rather Eric frown than smile like that, so I don't smile back, and the corner of his mouth quickly falls back into place. He nods at the pills. "Go on, take these."

I toss the medicine into my mouth and take a few gulps from the water bottle. As I screw the cap back on, Eric says, "Lift your tongue," and, while I almost ask if Pam told him about my pulling that trick or if he just became suspicious on his own, it occurs to me that I couldn't care less either way, and I hold up my tongue without further ado and let him examine my mouth.

When Eric's satisfied, I say, "I want to sleep in the basement with you and Pam." We rarely openly discuss it – it's bad vampire etiquette to discuss where one goes to ground – but Eric and Pam typically retire downstairs. I don't think they do so in the main part, the dungeon part; I've always assumed there was at least one extra room down there, but I've never asked. After all, the basement used to  _not_  be a part of my life. Now, of course, I've been down there three times in a month. You would think I'd have thought to look for coffins or doors at least one of those times, but no. I suppose I must have been distracted.

"There's no bed for you in the basement," Eric tells me.

"You have guest coffins, right?"

"Even I am not so morbid as to let you sleep in a coffin, dear. You'll be more comfortable here. I can reach you in an instant if I need to. But I won't need to." He tilts his head towards my bed. "Lie down. I'll stay with you awhile."

I climb into bed, as silly as it feels. Eric turns on my bedside lamp, switches off the overhead lights, and settles on the edge of my mattress. As he tugs the comforter further over my shoulder, I say, "I can feel the men. The officers. Like . . . flies. Buzzing around my head."

The corner of Eric's mouth tilts up again, this time on its own. "The way you put things . . ." With his index finger he pushes a stray strand of hair from my forehead. "None of the officers are inside. Don't worry about them . . ." He begins to stroke my hair, from my crown to my neck, in a gentle, familiar gesture that's almost too simple to be as comforting as it always has been for me. As it still is, even now, in the mess we're in . . . but it fixes nothing. It's only a salve. "What are you reading now?" Eric says. "For pleasure, not because I said to. I'll read to you."

Eric reading to me. Under normal circumstances, how quickly, how  _eagerly_  would I accept that offer? He hasn't read to me since I was in Sweden, and even then not all that often. I kind of remember crawling into his lap with picture books when I was very little. Being sure to say  _please_ ,like I was always supposed to, but which Eric especially liked. I don't know if I remember those moments because they happened regularly or because they were so rare and special that I recorded them as best I could . . . Then there were the two times I fell sick – really sick, stay-in-bed sick – and Eric read  _Beowulf_ to me. Which I loved. So yes, under normal circumstances, and even if it is childish, I would be happy to let Eric read to me. But oh, how abnormal these circumstances are. And how abnormal I feel. The prospect of Eric reading to me right now, the way things are, only sounds like an easy, stupid way to throw away time.

And I've never thought much about that, have I? Wasting time. Why  _should_  I have thought about it, living as I have, with my future always understood by myself and everyone around me? The future in which Eric turns me, and my abilities help him all the time, and I get to call him  _my maker_ instead of  _my guardian_? Yet here I am now, questioning that future. Doubting it. Time might matter more for me than it ever has before, because suddenly things like the Authority and the King of Mississippi are taking up far too much space in my life.

_The King of Mississippi._ I shouldn't call him that. He's Russell Edgington. I won't refer to him as anything more. I don't care what anyone in vampire politics has to say about it, he doesn't deserve a title. Not him.

"Annika." Eric taps a finger on the back of my head. "What are you reading?"

Eric doesn't see it, but I know it's true: We can't just sit around with a book, him and I. Not with what's happening. There was an emperor once – a Roman emperor, though I forget which one – who supposedly played the violin while his city burned. I read that story and then I read it wasn't true, but the image stayed with me. Sitting around with a book tonight . . . that would be Eric and me playing the violin as Rome burns.

"You killed Talbot for revenge." I rub my comforter between my finger and thumb. Eric stops stroking my hair, which I would have preferred he hadn't, but I won't let it stop me. "Because of your family. Because of what the – what Edgington did." I look at Eric, though without moving my head. His eyes aren't as soft as they were before. I mean, they're not hard, they're not angry. But they're . . . less open.

Oh, the questions I want to ask him, the endlessquestions –  _Why did Edgington kill your family? How did you survive? How did Edgington stay out of your reach for so long?_ Questions like that, but also very different questions, questions like . . .  _What was your father's name? What was your mother like? Who were you, before?_. . . Endless questions.

But I don't need Eric to say it for me to know he doesn't want to talk about that. About  _them._ He's never talked about them before, after all – not even with Pam, she all but admitted that. He certainly won't want to discuss them here and now with me, when the only reason I know what I know is because he had to bring it up for Nan Flanagan and noisy webcams in order to reveal what Russell Edgington really is, what he's done, the danger he presents. He's a threat to vampires'  _very existence,_ that's what Eric said, and also –

"You said we needed sanctuary."

"Well . . ." Eric goes back to stroking my head, which loosens a very little knot I didn't notice had formed in my chest. "Luckily, Nan provided us with all the security we need."

I swallow, let him smooth my hair twice more, and say, "Edgington's coming for you, isn't he?"

"Not tonight."

Which isn't that comforting of an answer.

Then, after I've been silent for a few seconds: "You are safe. I promise."

I've gone from rubbing my comforter with just two fingers to gripping it with all of them. I don't know when I did that, but I can't bring myself to relax my hand. "What about you?"

"Oh, I can take care of myself, little one."

_While being hunted by a vampire who is two thousand years older than you? Who sends electricity through any room he enters because he's just that powerful? Who is grieving from the death of the consort you murdered?_

"Tell me what you're reading," Eric says again.

I exhale a little too sharply to only be sighing, but I'm not really  _huffing_ , either. "It's a play. You can't read it to me. You'd sound like you had multiple personalities."

"What play? Something of mine?"

" _The Importance of Being Earnest._ It's not yours. I got it the last time Ginger took me to the library."

Eric gives another faint, faint smile. "Such good taste."

"It's probably overdue by now."

"I think we can let that be a problem for another day. Do you like it?"

"I'm only in the second act. I haven't had much chance to read lately, obviously . . . but, yes, I like it. It's funny. Or –  _clever_ , is a better word."

"Mm, Wilde was quite talented. Excellent company, too, I met him once."

"Did you  _really_ meet him? Or is this like when you said you said you were Bram Stoker's inspiration for  _Dracula?_ "

"I  _was_ Bram Stoker's inspiration for  _Dracula._ Just not quite as directly as I may, somewhat, have guided you into believing."

"Somewhat?"

"It got you to read the book."

"I've read better."

"Yes, dear, you were quite vocal about that."

I feel his hand slide onto the nape of my neck before it vanishes, presumably travelling back to my head so he can slide it down again. Only he doesn't make it there, because I snap my fingers from my comforter, reach behind me, and take his hand. I shove all thoughts from my mind with such force it hurts, but I have to be quick, and for a second I block out everything that exists outside of Eric's and my palms and fingers, the connection of our skin, and –  _yes_. A bolt – a meek bolt, a bolt that knows it's not in the right place, but a bolt nonetheless – travels through my arm to my heart, which shudders as it's struck and screams to my brain,  _Fear!_

Eric jerks his hand away. "You know better than to do that," he says sternly, quite sternly, like he wanted to see how much he could change his tone from his last sentence to this one.

"I'm sorry." I draw my hand into me as my heart pulses bad things out to my body.

"I value my privacy, Annika –  _immensely,_ " Eric says in something just a step away from a hiss. "So much as you can help it, my mind is off-limits to you, every bit as much as anything tangible I forbid you from – such as my file cabinet, for example. My file cabinet, which is the only place you could have found that name you were researching on my computer. Don't think I've forgotten about that. Don't think I don't plan on having a  _very_ long discussion about that."

I push myself up, throwing off my blankets as I do. "I'm  _sorry!_ I mean – the files, yes, that was wrong, fine, okay, punish me for that, I won't argue, but reading you – I – I don't know, maybe that was wrong, too, but what am I supposed to do? The Authority is  _judging_ you, Eric, and even if they don't do anything really bad to you, Russell Edgington will, if he gets the opportunity! And I  _know_ that, and I  _know_ it's serious, but then you come in here and talk to me about English writers like everything's okay? Do you know how confusing that is, how – how frustratingit is to know that you're not being truthful with me but to  _not_  know exactly how much you're not being truthful, or exactly what about? I'm – I'm just – I'm tired of questioning  _everything_  all the time!"

I stop, entirely because I'm out of breath and therefore have no other choice. I mean, the smartest part of me was trying to wrangle my tongue from the start of that little rant, but all the other parts, it seems, are stronger. Or maybe it was the words that were strong, the words that surged from me like one long train from a tunnel. Maybe they needed to get out and didn't care what my better judgement had to say on the matter.

Whatever. It's done. I take a deep breath, let some of it out, swallow with my dry throat, take handfuls of my bedspread, and choose a spot to stare at on the blanket's blue surface while I wait for Eric to respond.

I have to wait a while.

"Irish writers," I finally hear, and I peek at Eric through my eyelashes. He could be looking at my bedside lamp, but it's more likely his gaze simply settled in that direction as he thought.

I clear my throat. "Sorry?"

"Stoker and Wilde. They were Irish, not English. You should take care not to get the Irish and the English confused. Neither party is known to take it well." With one hand, Eric rubs his eyes, a thumb on one and fingers on the other. Soon he stops rubbing and just sort of presses. I don't move, I don't speak, and eventually Eric drops his hand and starts to talk.

"The Authority will want to pin the magister's murder on me, because from a public relations standpoint, I am a much more appealing culprit than Edgington. The good news is that I have connections in the Authority, which is something you are to repeat to no one, ever. Arguments will be made in my favor. And I might not be a king, but I do have a certain level of prominence. My chances are . . . better than they would be for most. And if I am found guilty, it's quite likely that my sentence will be less than could normally be expected. As for the threat from Edgington . . . of course it's serious. I  _know_ you know that. What I also know is that I'm an excellent strategist and have evaded and defeated more than my share of enemies over the last ten centuries. Edgington could very well just be one more name to add to the list. That being said, there's no point in worrying about him un–" He hesitates for the tiniest instant, as if his voice hits a bump on its way out of his mouth – "until the Authority clears me."

My throat closes. He tried to cover it, but he couldn't, not totally. Not enough. He tried to cover it, but he almost said  _unless._ The rest of what he said was okay – not comforting, but also not completely terrifying, and above all else believable – but then he almost said  _unless._ And that one little mistake snagged onto everything that came before it and tore it down, leaving it in shambles.

Eric looks into my eyes in a way that reaches into them, past them, and to something deeper but more vulnerable. The thing that made my throat close, probably. Half his face is cast in the lamp's soft yellow light. The other half is pale enough that it glows in the dark. Quietly he says, "Lie down, please."

I obey. For the first time in years, I want a doll. Or a stuffed toy. My arms want to squeeze something familiar and friendly, something besides myself, but myself is all they have, so that's what they squeeze. It helps little, and the room blurs. Eric brushes his thumb over my cheek. "You see?" he murmurs. "This is why I don't discuss these things with you."

I press my fingers to my lips and stare across the room, at the quivering shape of my dresser.

"I have every intention of getting through this, Annika. And I'm very good at getting what I want." A pause, and then, "But if anything happens to me –"

" _No –"_

"– Pam will look after you," Eric finishes, each word firm, and I squeeze my eyes closed, pushing out a tear that burns its way across my temple. "She cares about you more than she would ever admit, even to herself."

I open my eyes.

_I listened to Eric speak of you._

Oh,Godric.

_He cares for you,_ continues the voice in my head, the voice of my guardian's maker, ringing so clear that I wonder, distantly, if my remembering it has more to do with my abilities than my mind. I can see him, too, sitting on my bed just as Eric is now, smiling his sorrowful smile.  _More than he would admit, perhaps even to himself._

"What is it?" Eric takes hold of my shoulder. "Did you feel something?"

I open my mouth and, truly, come so close to saying  _Godric._ That's it, just his name, as if that would tell Eric all he'd need to know. But I stop myself, which is good, because of course it wouldn't tell Eric all he'd need to know – I would have to fill in the blanks, which would mean telling Eric about Godric visiting me just days after his death. Except, of course, it might not have been Godric – it almost certainly wasn't, in fact. No, it was a  _dream_ , a fictional creation produced by my stressed mind because I had so much to say to him, to Godric, who died when he didn't have to and horrifically hurt Eric in the process. I needed to tell Godric how unfair he'd been, so I dreamt up a meeting to do so. And he  _had_ been unfair. Does it get more unfair – does it get more  _selfish –_ than willingly throwing your life away when there are people who love you? People who don't know how to live in a world without you? People who . . .

"Annie." Eric wipes the tearstain from my face. "What is it?"

People who need you. People who depend on you for every single thing that matters in their lives. People who have  _worshipped_ you from the time they could walk – no,  _think_.

"Annika. I need you to answer me."

"It's nothing," I whisper.

"Is that the truth? It's alright if it's not, I'll overlook it. Just be honest with me now."

"That's the truth. It's nothing. I just – I'm just . . ."

"You're anxious," Eric concludes. Gently, but so certain of himself. So certain of  _me_. "It's made you tense. Your medicine will take effect soon. Breathe. Try to relax."

I do try. For myself, but also for him . . . and then for myself again. Because I want to relax so I'll feel better, and I want to relax because Eric wants me to, and I want to relax because Eric can feel what I feel and I don't want him to know about the newest emotion flickering inside of me. I don't want it to be there, I swear I don't, but it's there nonetheless. And it's determined to grow and heat and  _burn._ I ignore it, as much as I can, that's my only choice, try to ignore it long enough for my medicine to start working and maybe quench the flame.

In the meantime, my throat and eyes continue to swell. Of course they do. I might cry when I'm hurt, or scared, or sad, but if nothing else – I cry when I'm angry.

And it's wrong, it's  _wrong_ , but I am.

. . . . .

Eric, to his credit, and in spite of the Bleeds, stays until after the medicine has sunk into my body and I've sunk into sleep, at least apparently. I'm conscious of it when he slips out the door, but then I drift off again, and I keep doing that – waking up and drifting off – for some time. Then the drifting-off part stops. It isn't hard to figure out why. My bedside clock claims it's a few minutes past three p.m., which means my medication is on its way out of my system, peeling from me its warm, world-muffling blanket and leaving my insides cold and shaking.

I move to my beanbag chair and finish  _The Importance of Being Earnest._ It takes me twice as long as it should, because there are a million other things to think about besides Victorian society and all its all flaws, things that, my brain is quite certain, need more attention than this or any literary work and need it  _immediately_. But I fight my way to the end, even though something like a play shouldn't be struggled through like that and Mr. Wilde probably deserves better. It's the best option I have. Better to divide my attention between a witty play and a tornado of vicious thoughts than to throw myself into the tornado completely.

I shower. I might wash my hair twice, I'm not sure. I change into jeans and a tee shirt, clip my wet hair back, and brush my teeth, studying the grey circles under my eyes as I do so. I look a bit more like a vampire than usual, don't I? That should make me happy. It would have when I was younger.

I go to the storage room, to my efficient little food center: A toaster on top of a microwave on top of a mini-fridge, which is beside a freezer, which is below two stocked shelves. I gaze at it all for a minute, not really thinking about the food at all as I do so, because there are still those million other thoughts. But then I use the microwave to boil a mug of water and, when it's done, drop in a bag of green tea. I then leave and go for the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, and almost reach it, but don't. Instead I turn back for the storage room. I'm never supposed to skip breakfast. Eric doesn't like it.

There it is. That flicker.

I get a bowl and a spoon and one of the two cereals I usually have on hand, both of which are whole-grain – because Eric likes me to eat well – but one of which is flavored with honey and one of which is flavored with cinnamon. The one I've chosen is the cinnamon. Only, I stare at it for a moment, then trade it for the honey cereal. But then I put that back on the shelf, too. I get a banana from my ever-present basket of fruit, peel it, and throw it away.

Eventually, I drop the halves of a bagel – whole wheat, of course, like Eric wants, always like Eric wants – into the toaster, mostly because I like the smell. But when the halves pop out I dutifully put them on a plate and spread jam over them. Lingonberry. My favorite.

It's an automatic process. Those can be nice, remember?

I carry my tea and my food into the bar and sit at a table without turning on any lights. The red ones on the stage are on, and the emergency lights behind the bar, just like last night. So I'm not in darkness. Which maybe isn't what's best. Maybe I'd feel better in the darkness. Darkness is a blanket, really. And sometimes it's nice to just bundle up in something.

I break off a piece of my bagel, bite off half of that piece, and chew. The bread is dry and the jam's sweetness doesn't make sense to my tongue. My stomach, for its part, does its best to shut itself off, put up a  _CLOSED FOR BUSINESS_ sign, but like the world's rudest customer I swallow and force it to accept the chewed half-piece of bagel. But that's as rude as I'll be. I drop the remaining half-piece and only drink my tea after that. My stomach doesn't mind the tea.

The bar, as still as it is, is like a blank sheet of paper, and my mind, as hectic as it is, starts to fill it.

. . . . .

_Someone is sitting on the end of my bed. As I raise up, the person turns his head to me and reveals himself to be Godric. It seems perfectly natural, because I recognize immediately that it must be a dream, and dreams can be absurd._

" _No vampire could have made you meet the sun," I say. "You did it to yourself."_   _I didn't realize how sure I was of this until now, hearing it spoken out loud, but it's the only thing that makes any sense. And it is_ infuriating.  _And unfair. And Godric, dream Godric or imagined Godric or ghost Godric, doesn't argue. "How could you do that? How could you do that to Eric?"_

. . . . .

"How could you do that?" I whisper.

. . . . .

_"He loved you! How could you . . ."_

_. . . . ._

". . . leave him like that?" I drink three gulps of my tea, burning my tongue. Godric never answered that question. He never explained it to me, he just looked at me with sad, old, dead eyes, not helping at all. Giving me nothing to lean on for later, when I would dwell on him and try to understand, and nothing to lean on if ever – say, hypothetically – I needed to sort out why someone  _I_  adored would throw away his life  _just like Godric did_ and abandon those who loved him  _just like Godric did_. Two thousand years old, more experience and power than most people could ever dream of, and Godric couldn't give one little explanation to an eleven-year-old. And it's not as if he didn't have the time, either, what with being either dead or imaginary.

_It wasn't imaginary and you know it._

"Shh," I say to myself, tracing the rim of my mug. "I have much more pressing matters to deal with at the moment than your . . ." But that doesn't even make sense, so I let my voice shrink to a trickle and then stop altogether, and some time later I say, "You need sleep."

I don't know how long I sit here alone, thinking thoughts like bad poetry and abstract paintings. I would believe a half-hour passes, I would believe two hours do. Either way, or anything in between, it comes to an end when the EMPLOYEES ONLY door opens with a whine and, through the corner of my eye, I see Eric enter the room. Pam follows, a splash of pink. Eric sits at my table. Pam sits at the one next to us. I don't have the energy to look up, but I can see her feet. She's wearing fuzzy boots. I kind of love her for that. I can't say exactly why.

"You need to eat," Eric tells me.

Now I do look up, because I have to, and something about how I do so makes Eric nod in a very tiny way, and then he asks, "Did you sleep?"

I shrug and return my attention to my mug, empty now.

We wait. It takes me a bit to understand that that's what we're doing, but I get it. We wait, in silence, as my stomach knots because of my feelings and trembles because of Pam's – oh, Pam, how she would hate it if she knew I know she's scared – and as Eric sits like a statue with no plaque for me to read.

Naturally, when the front door flies open, I jump. My heart constricts, and I meet Eric's eyes, because suddenly that's all I want to do, but he looks back for only a second before turning his attention to the door, even as he mutters, "Go to your room."

I don't move. I hear the unmistakable sound of angry high heels coming for us, but I don't move. It's not disobedience, really. Not in a way that matters, it's – it's like if Eric told me to take his Corvette to the car wash. No, it's not technically impossible, but we both know it isn't going to happen, it shouldn't, it's a nonsensical idea, and he doesn't honestly expect me to do it. And when he looks at me again, I know we're on the same page about this, because there's no threat in his eyes. There might be a plea.

I stare back at him, unblinking, until the smell of weeds floods my nose and Eric has to turn to Nan Flanagan, in the process sweeping every tender thing off his expression. Flanagan is in a blazer and skirt, the sort of thing people on news shows wear, which I suppose is what she's going for. She sneers – only slightly, but it's there – at Eric, at me, at Pam, at my tea, at my beloved lingonberry jam, and finally at Eric again. "You look like shit."

Eric cocks his head. "Well, I feel fantastic."

Flanagan arches an eyebrow. I bet she's going on television later. Her hair, which last night was up in a professional, down-to-business sort of way, is parted perfectly and too stiff to be anything less than sticky with product. Her lips aren't quite so bright red now, and it's a better look for her. I picture myself telling her that –  _Ms. Flanagan, that lipstick is a great color on you_ – and purse my lips against the bizarre urge to laugh. Well, to smile. Or something. But then Flanagan unfolds a piece of paper and says, in an almost put-upon way, "The ruling is as follows," and that bizarre urge shrivels and disappears completely, and I find myself – the little-girl part of myself – wishing I could go with it.


	24. The True Face

"The Authority disavows any knowledge of our interview, your statement, or indeed this ruling itself. None of this ever happened."

Flanagan folds the paper in half and runs her finger across the crease in a  _that-settles-it_  way. I don't think the rest of us feel anything like that, though. I certainly don't.  _None of this ever happened._ No way. No way it can be that easy . . .

Eric speaks first. He can hide it when he's surprised, I know he can, but he doesn't now. "What?"

Nan hands him the paper, and as he reads it, she says, sounding bored, "Missing royals, dead magisters – it's a political tar-baby no one wants to touch. Not with the VRA this close to ratification."

Eric rises. I roll my shoulders back, trying to get them to feel right again. They sort of seem to have melted, and though all that means is that they went from feeling stiff and jagged to warm, pleasant goo, I don't want that to be clear to anyone.

"Russell will not stop killing," Eric says to Flanagan. There's an earnestness to him, an urgency, and you'd never know he was just, maybe, spared of a possibly horrible punishment. “What if the human public learns of it?"

"That's why  _you're_ going to take care of it."

Eric lifts his chin.

"Quietly," Flanagan continues. "Discreetly. And most important of all, completely off the books." She plucks the paper from Eric's hand. "You wanted revenge? It's yours."

"What resources are you going to give me?"

"None. We're not getting near it." Flanagan spins on her heel and heads for the door, where two officers wait for her like good little dogs.

Eric watches her go, eyes a little too wide. "How do you expect me to kill him?" He doesn't yell this, he doesn't even sound all-the-way angry, but his voice is louder than it should be. It echoes through the empty bar. "He's  _three times_  my age."

Flanagan spins back around, teeth clenched –  _bared_. With three strides, she plants herself in front of Eric. Flanagan's tall, but Eric's still taller by a few inches, and you'd think that might intimidate her, but – no. Or if it does, she doesn't show it. "Listen, you whiny little bitch –"

I clench my fists, gooey muscles or not.

"The only link between Sophie-Anne, Russell, and the magister is  _you._ You brought us this steaming pile of shit, and you're going to make it go away. Bring me his fangs . . ." Flanagan half-turns, tossing her final words out like an afterthought. But I think she means them. Her eyes say she means them. "Or I will have yours."

Flanagan leaves the bar, never looking back, the two officers trailing after her. The door bangs closed behind them.

A lungful of air shivers from me. Eric stands where Flanagan left him, eyes darting this way and that like they can see things, fast-moving things, I can't. Meanwhile, my muscles are beginning to harden again. Yes, Eric is safe from the Authority, but – now there's Edgington to deal with. Not just survive – deal with. Without help. Without drawing attention to the fact.

"Eric?" I say, and he looks over, but I shouldn't have spoken, because nothing I might say next, none of the questions blaring in my brain –  _What happens now? What are you going to do? Are we going to be okay?_ – sound anything less than stupid. Stupid and childish.

When it becomes clear I'm done talking, Eric tells me, "This is a good thing," and, after glancing at Pam, jerks his head to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. "Go, Annika. Pam and I need to talk. Take your dishes."

His tone isn't harsh, but the words sting. So does having to slide from my chair, collect my empty mug and full plate, and walk out of the room like a servant in an old-time movie who can't hear what her lord and lady discuss. Of course it stings, especially now, when the discussion is so important, so relevant to  _all_ of us, not just Eric and Pam.

Not to mention the fact that the Authority just let Eric off, and isn't that worth at least a minute of celebration? Of relief?

_No. Because they didn't really let him off. You heard Flanagan – she wants Edgington's fangs, or she wants Eric's._

I wash the dishes in the storage room's basin-like sink and place them properly on the shelf. I do so carefully, because I feel shaky, and hearing nothing when I pass the EMPLOYEES ONLY door while walking my room does not set me at ease.

I make my bed, because I like it made and normally make it as soon as I wake up. But this evening was unusual. It still is. This whole week has been unusual, of course, and maybe that's why my room still feels a little too cold. Maybe it's confused. I haven't been here, my tutors haven't been here, music hasn't shaken the walls in – what, three nights? If you needed proof the situation is dire, that should do it. Pam and Eric sacrificing three nights of business in a row – four nights, if they don't open tonight, and I seriously doubt they will – is, for them, as unnatural as afternoon strolls.

_How do you expect me to kill him? He's three times my age._

I pace the room, clicking past every song on my iPod, then start over by clicking  _Shuffle_ and vowing to listen to whatever song comes on first. That song happens to be "Disturbia," by Rihanna. I get to the line  _All my life on my head/Don't want to think about it/Feels like I'm going insane_ , and, with that, I turn off the iPod and continue my pacing in silence. Well, not total silence. My Converse shoes squeak on the concrete and pad on the rug. Squeak, squeak, squeak, pad, pad, pad, squeak, squeak, squeak. Over and over and over.

I should be out there, talking with Eric and Pam. That goes without saying. I'm almost tired of thinking things like that, things like  _Let me be included in these decisions about_ our  _lives._ And no, my being included isn't a priority right now, not for the sake of me feeling good, but I'm not useless, and if they let me, maybe I could _–_

I step into a room in which a silver-haired man in a yellow tie sits behind a big, clutter-less desk and in front of a huge, huge picture of all the world's continents at night. In the picture, you can tell where all the people are, where they tend to crowd and where they run if they want to be alone, because of the dots and bundles of lights spread over the earth. And the lights reach into pretty much every corner, don't they? Humans reach into pretty much every corner . . .

. . .  _I listen politely, because I am a guest here, as the man speaks at someone or something behind me. ". . . top stories this evening: In Salem, Oregon, both pro- and anti-vampire advocates rallied in anticipation of the state's upcoming ratification vote on the Vampire Rights Amendment. Polls show the measure –" He checks a stack of papers right as something crashes to the ground behind me, and though I can't turn to look, the man glances up. He never stops talking, though, but his tongue trips a bit. "– gaining support in recent months, although nearly twenty percent of the country remains undecided." He straightens his papers, all finished here, and then a hand explodes from his center and waves something lumpy, raw, and dripping beneath the man's seizing head. A piece of his spine. With a grimace, Russell Edgington yanks his arm from the body, which slumps over the desk, and holds up the chunk of bone like a trophy. "Does that help you decide, America?" he yells. "_ DO NOT turn off the camera!"

And now I'm back in my room, one foot on the rug and one foot on the concrete, my hand over my mouth.

My thoughts, oddly enough, organize themselves quite nicely. They struggle with that sometimes, but right now they seem to understand that their cooperation is extra-important. With simple, clear commands, they direct my feet to carry me from my room and into Eric's office, and my hands to carefully but quickly pull the rolling TV stand from the closet, and my thumb to press the power button and then the up-one-channel button, again and again.

 _Click._ Two broadcasters in front of a cityscape background.  _Click._ A man speaking to the camera in front of jeering crowd with signs, one of which reads GOD HATES FANGS.  _Click._ A commercial with a girl my age selling cookies.  _Click._ A woman interviewing a man labelled as Reverend-Steve something.  _Click._  Russell Edgington in front of a picture of the continents at night, sitting at a desk and addressing the camera with folded hands, one of them clean, the other soaked in blood.

"Eric," I hear myself call.

". . . in the end," Edgington is saying softly, thoughtfully, as a toothy smile spreads over his face, "We . . . are . . .  _nothing . . ._ like you. We . . . are . . .  _immortal._ " He laughs, holding his mismatched hands palm-up, looking this way and that as if asking  _Can you believe this?_ to whoever may be in that room with him.  _"_ Because we drink the True Blood! The blood that is living, organic . . . and human."

_"Eric!"_

Edgington licks a bit of gore from his hand, almost delicately, as Eric appears in the doorway. I don't look at him. How could I do that? How could I look away from the TV?

"And that," Edgington says as Eric comes, slowly, to stand beside me, as Pam comes to stand beside him, "is the truth the AVL wishes to conceal from you, because – let's face it – eating people is a tough sell these days, so they put on their  _friendly faces_ to pass their beloved VRA. But make no mistake:  _MINE_ is the true face –" Edgington spreads his arms wide, grinning – "of  _VAMPIRES!"_

"Shit," says Pam.

Edgington lowers his arms, lowers in his seat, loses his grin and furrows his brow. "Why," he begins, and I think he might truly be pondering this, "would we seek equal rights? You . . . are  _not_ our equals." He leans forward, and, as if a plug were pulled in his mind somewhere, the curiosity drains away, the humor drains away, and all that remains is a madman hissing, "We will eat you . . ."

And this part, this part I whisper with him.

" _After we eat your children."_

I lean my head into my hand. Eric, undoubtedly having heard me, takes my shoulder. "Annika, did you –"

I pull away, and step away, so he can't reach me so easily again.  _Look who you pissed off!_ I want to scream.  _Look who's coming for you – who you_ made  _come for you!_

"Now for the weather." Edgington beams at the camera. "Tiffany?"


	25. Good Girl

The club, once again, doesn't open tonight, and Eric calls a lawyer. He doesn't tell me he calls a lawyer, of course, but I figure it out.

After we see Edgington on television, I ask Eric if he thinks he's coming for him now, and Eric tells me he doesn't know but not to worry, and I ask why Edgington _wouldn't_ come for him now, and Eric tells me not to worry and to go clean my room. My room is clean, and I say this, and he says to please go clean my room. So I go and clean my clean room, dusting the nearly-dustless surfaces and re-arranging my perfectly arranged bookshelf, my insides twisting all the while. That's interrupted, however, by a cool flutter of energy in my gut, which tells me a human has arrived. I take a break and go down the hallway to stand by the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, where I eavesdrop on the conversation happening in the bar, realize what it's about, and feel that steady, slight flicker of anger that's made itself so cozy in the pit of my stomach flare into something far stronger than a flicker.

Eric must pay the lawyer quite well. It's early, early morning, when a normal human like him should be asleep. Instead he's inside a nearly-empty vampire bar talking business. He sounds pleasant, though. Far too pleasant. Maybe it's his accent, the typical American-southern drawl meant for words like _mama_ and _y'all_ and not the dreadful things the lawyer's saying now _._

Things about what happens if Eric dies.

"I give all my residences, subject to any mortgages or encumbrances thereon, to . . . ?"

"My progeny." Eric's low voice comes sliding through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door that separates him from me, as if it just couldn't bear the idea of my missing this. "Pamela Swynford de Beaufort."

I've crossed my arms. No, _crossed_ isn't the right word. It's more like I'm trying to cradle something. But I have nothing to cradle – I'm all alone in the dim hallway, on the edges of yet another conversation I'm to have no part in. Nothing to cradle, nothing to be cradled by. If that were the sort of thing I wanted.

Pam's voice reaches me next. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because, Pam," says Eric, "Russell Edgington was maybe the oldest and strongest vampire on the planet _before_ he eviscerated a newsman live on TV. Now he's also the craziest. And his rage is directed at me. Do the math."

I wrap my fingers around my biceps and clench as hard as I can, breaking skin and promising myself bruises.

"Article Four," the lawyer starts in again, "I give the rest of residuary estate to . . . ?"

"My progeny, Pamela Swynford de Beaufort."

"You're not even gonna put up a fight?" Pam sounds disbelieving and annoyed all at once. Oh, and terrified, too. Maybe you couldn't hear it if you didn't know her, but trust me – she's out-of-her-mind terrified.

"Of course I am. But until I come up with a brilliant plan to beat him, I am covering my bases. And your ass."

"Eric –"

I don't hear all of what Eric says next, because his voice drops to a place quieter, deeper, and angrier then the place it was before. But it starts with _unless,_ includes _plan_ and _Russell Edgington,_ and ends with, ". . . do _not_ distract me!"

Pam is silent. Eric mutters something else. The lawyer speaks again, as pleasant as ever, like he'd missed the conflict entirely. "Your signature requires two witnesses. But the witness cannot be the beneficiary of your estate."

"Yvetta!" Eric calls. I must have missed her arrive, so I don't know when she got here, let alone why. For feeding, probably. Or sex. I understand that can be a great stress reliever. Although if Eric doesn't even have a plan for defeating Edgington, I feel like maybe he should skip taking time to relieve stress. But what do I know? And who's ever going to ask me?

A door opens somewhere out there – the door to the bathrooms, I imagine, unless Yvetta was hiding in the second storage area. Eric asks, "Are you mentally competent and under no duress at this time?"

" _Da,_ " I hear Yvetta say.

"Good, watch this."

No one talks for a few seconds. A little black shape scuttles past my feet. _Oh, no. What if we have an infestation? Could anything be worse than that?_

And now the lawyer is congratulating Pam. "According to the State of Louisiana, should Mr. Northman meet the True Death, you will become a very wealthy vampire . . . I'll show myself out."

A minute later, after the muffled slam of the front door, Yvetta says something in that language she speaks that I don't. She sounds unhappy, I can tell that much. Eric says something back in the same language, and Yvetta speaks again, and then Eric starts talking in that language but finishes what he says in English, and he finishes it fiercely.

". . . you gold-digging _whore!"_

Yvetta doesn't reply. I hear her heels clacking towards me just in time to step back. The door swings open, spilling a little light, and Yvetta, into the hallway. She stomps past me without acknowledgement, lips tight the way people's lips get tight when they don't want to cry, and I brace myself against the flood of her fury and hurt.

Before the door falls closed, I catch a glimpse of Eric at a table with his back to me. Pam is on her feet beside him, facing this way. Our eyes meet before the door closes her off yet again.

Down the hall, Yvetta throws open the employee exit and disappears. The barest wave of fresh air touches me, almost teasingly. Fresh air. When was the last time I really enjoyed fresh air? I loved going outside as a child. The air of Shreveport is nothing like the air of Öland, but it's better than inside-air. Or at least it's different. Different sounds nice.

I go to the exit and lean my weight against it, pushing out into the night. I'm not supposed to go outside alone. The thing is, I've spent my life trying very hard to do what I'm supposed to, and it's gotten me . . . here. And here, to be frank, sucks. So, yeah. I go outside.

Yvetta is already in her car, headlights glaring as if they're also angry at whatever injustice has been done to her. The car's tires spin a bit before speeding away, bits of gravel flying.

I look up at the stars. There are some, but not as many as there should be. City lights ruin the night sky. The first time Eric took me to Stockholm, we stood on the balcony of our hotel room and I asked if the sky here had always been so empty, or if most of the stars had simply fallen. Eric likes that story. He's never told it to anyone but me, I'm sure. But he likes it.

The air _is_ better out here. Not great, but better.

 _How could he?_ a voice whispers from deep down. _How could he?_ It stokes the fire in my gut and the flames grow, touching my heart and throat, licking into my arms and even down to my fingers. _How_ could _he?_

_BANG!_

My heart leaps into the air, but my arm is grabbed, not gently, before I can make a move. "Are you kidding me?" Pam hisses, and when I start to answer, she says, "No. Shut up," and drags me back through the door, which hasn't even had time to close.

. . . . .

Pam all but throws me into my room. I whirl around, fists tight, as she closes the door. "You hurt my arm," I snap, even though that's barely true. Mostly I just don't appreciate being moved against my will. Pam doesn't care about that, though, and she _would_ care if she injured me. Even that possibility, however, doesn't currently seem to concern her.

"Are you out of your mind?" she says, managing to speak in nearly a whisper without sacrificing a vicious tone.

"I was just getting some fresh air."

"Don't you get what's going on around here? If Eric caught you out there right now, he'd –"

And that is when a piece of me snaps in two. " _Fuck_ Eric!"

Pam pushes me into the wall, her forearm an iron bar against my chest. I recognize, even in the moment, that she isn't using nearly as much force as she could. But we're talking about a vampire, so my bones are nonetheless vibrating when she bends low and tells me, "Say that again, little girl, and I'll make you miss your black eye."

I fight her arm away, hating that I'm able to only because she allows it, hating that she brought up the black eye, and hating pretty much everything else, too, and it's probably that last detail that really breaks something inside of me, something that shouldn't have been broken, which allows my next words to come spilling out in a breathless mess.

"He chose this, Pam! He _chose_ this! He got revenge on Edgington even though he knew who Edgington was and what he would do! Even though he knew he might – He chose _revenge_ over us! How – how _could_ he?"

" _That's_ what you're concerned with right now? Where you fall on Eric's list of priorities?"

"That's not – It's not just _me!_ It's _us!_ He chose revenge over _us!_ "

" _Annika._ Keep. Your goddamn voice. _Down_."

"You know I'm right!"

"What I _know_ is that spoiled little _humans_ shouldn't talk about things they _don't understand_ – "

"I'm _not_ spoiled, you know I'm not, and I might be human, but I understand plenty! Like – like how Edgington is _insane_ , and how he's isn't going to stop until he kills Eric or Eric kills him, and how he is _way_ more powerful than Eric, and how Eric knew what might happen, knew what _would_ happen if he killed Talbot, and he killed Talbot anyway, and Pam, that – that was – _selfish_ , it was just _selfish_!"

The room flips around me, I have no footing, and just like that Pam is hissing over me, fangs out, as she pins me by my throat to the bed. I yank at her arm, I yank and yank, but it doesn't work, and –

"Pam. That's enough."

At the sound of Eric's voice, Pam's fangs slide back into hiding, but she's clearly annoyed. "Could you give us a minute? We're having girl-time."

"Let her go."

With a sigh, Pam releases me. I sit up, even as dread, embarrassment, and deep, deep shame fill my gut like three cannonballs. I hang my legs over the edge of the bed without looking up. I didn't notice Eric open the door. I have no idea how much he heard. Even if he only heard the last part, it was more than bad enough, but if he heard much before . . .

He's at the edge of my vision, standing in the doorway. He steps aside so Pam can pass, but otherwise doesn't move. I feel his eyes on me, feel them as much as I'd feel his hand.

Then, without a word, Eric walks away. Of all the horrible moments I thought could have been about to happen, none of them included him doing that. No. This is a fresh, unexpected sort of horrible.

Just hours ago, the Authority said Eric wasn't guilty. This should have been a happy night.

_Everything is falling apart._

Everything.

I slide down the side of my bed and sit on the cold floor with my arms around my knees. I want to sink lower than this. Sink into the concrete and into the earth after that, and keep sinking and sinking until I'm so deep that my own feelings, thoughts, and memories can't find me, so deep I no longer know who I am, so deep I'm not anything at all.

. . . . .

I don't look at the clock while down here fantasizing about sinking, not even once, but if pressed I would say at least an hour goes by before Eric returns. I wasn't sure he would. I thought he might simply not be up to dealing with me right now, but . . . evidently he is.

He closes the door behind him and, with slow steps, comes to stand in front of me. I flash back to the airport terminal in Dallas, when he found me sitting like this after I'd purposely missed my flight and then hung up on him while he was scolding me for it. That was only days after I sneaked into the basement and saw Lafayette. Eric didn't punish me for any of that. Really, I've been getting away with quite a lot lately. I wonder if Eric has realized this, too. I wonder if he thinks he should change that.

When he starts to speak, there's no anger in his voice, not even a little.

"My baby sister was killed by Edgington's wolves. She was only a few months old. A strong little thing . . . You're named after her."

Centimeter by centimeter, I raise my head so I can see Eric's face. He gazes down thoughtfully at me. Thoughtfully and . . . yes, a little sadly. I don't think I'll ever be able to see him look sadly at anything without feeling like the universe is slightly, slightly tilted. "It's a good name," he says. "I thought it deserved a second chance. It's not something I did lightly. But you've always worn it well."

I swallow. Eric sighs. Then he says, "I'm sending you to Sweden."

He lets that sink in. Or, I think that's what he thinks he's doing, but it's a pointless gesture. While I technically understand what the words mean, I can't seem to actually absorb them. They fall onto me and just sort of sit there.

"I've just booked you a flight," Eric continues. "Takeoff is at eleven-thirty in the morning. Ginger will see you to the airport. Hopefully you can sleep on the plane. And when you wake . . . you'll be home."

I use the bed to push myself up. Eric offers his hand. I don't take it, although I'm looking away, so he might think I just don't see it. I do, though. I do. When I'm on my feet, my eyes latch onto one of the photos on my dresser. The photo of the farmhouse. _Home._ "Why?"

"Because Edgington wants me, not you. He won't follow you to Sweden. But if you're in my vicinity, you could fall in harm's way, or he may even take you for his own. You know he likes psychics. Personally, I would like to avoid both of those things."

I say nothing. I'm too busy thinking.

"I know the circumstances are not ideal, but this is what you wanted. And, once I've successfully defeated Edgington with all the style and grace that befits me, you can return and tell me all about your relaxing, well-deserved vacation." He pauses. Waits. I let him. He grows tired of it. "Annika?"

I take a deep breath. "No."

"Sorry?"

He genuinely believes, I think, that he misheard me. He has every reason to believe that. Only once before have I been so blatantly defiant, and that was, ironically, when I was about to come to Shreveport. The night Eric told me I couldn't bring Beowulf. I said no to him then – cried no to him – but truly, that incident barely counts, because I was heartbroken and Eric knew it and neither of us, in hindsight, really thought I'd get my way, anyway.

This is different. This time, I fully intend to get my way.

Against every screaming instinct, I lift my chin, look Eric in the eye, and say, "I'm not going to Sweden."

Eric, after three (loud) beats of my heart, says, "You are." Not sternly, we're not there yet, but he's firm. Firm in the kind sort of way, though, like he is when I have to get shots.

I square my feet. In a voice that is loud and smooth – and therefore contradicting entirely my trembling hands – I say, "I will have to be dragged onto the plane. Kicking and screaming. After being dragged through security, and into the airport in the first place. That would be enough of a challenge for you – I very much doubt Ginger could handle it. Or any other human, for that matter. I suppose you could get a private plane and force me onto that, but – not this flight tomorrow, not any commercial flight. Because I am not going to Sweden. Not by my own free will. That is simply not going to happen."

Throughout my speech, Eric doesn't interrupt. He doesn't hold up a hand or walk away. He just listens. But by the time I finish, his head is tilted down too far. His eyes are pointed forward, on me, so I can't miss how dark they've gone with storm clouds. He looks, at least according to my memory, very much like he did years ago when he saw the bite I'd gotten from a sheepdog. The sheepdog he later killed.

He strides forward, raising his hand, and without a thought I flinch away.

Nothing happens.

My head is turned, but I can still see Eric's arm fall. "I was going to grab your shirt, Annika," he says in the voice of a man giving up on the day. "Take you by the scruff of the neck, so to speak. Exactly as I have done to get a point across dozens of times in your life . . . As compared to the _one time –"_

"I didn't mean to flinch, Eric, I'm sorry," I blurt, because his voice is heating up. And because I _didn't_ mean to and I _am_ sorry.

Neither of us says anything for too long. I won't be the first to break the silence, I'm sure of that much.

"Why are you fighting me on this?" Eric asks stiffly.

I almost insist, again, that I didn't mean to flinch, but then I realize he's talking about my going to Sweden. "Because – because I'm not going to run away."

"It isn't running. It isn't your problem, Annika, it has nothing to do with you."

"It's _your_ problem!" My hands come together so they can tangle as they so like to do, but I catch them, stop them, make them stay at my sides. "Everything you do affects me. That's what you said in Mississippi, in the mansion."

"Of course it affects you, but you did not cause it! You did not bring it on yourself . . . _I_ brought it on you." Eric faces the wall opposite me. I struggle to find a way to say I don't blame him without it being a total lie, but he turns back before I can succeed. "You were right before, with Pam. Killing Talbot was selfish."

I almost stopped noticing the cannonballs in my gut, but now I don't know how – the _shame_ one, especially, pulls hard on my heart. It also seems to be sitting directly on the angry little fire burning for Eric, almost putting it out. "Eric, I didn't mean –"

"Yes, you did. It's fine. You were right, I freely admit it. I'm not saying I wouldn't do the same thing over. I would. Edgington robbed me of those I cared about, robbed my family of their _lives_ , and I made an oath to my dying father that I would avenge them. Seizing the opportunity when it came was, for me, a choice only in the most technical sense. But that doesn't mean it wasn't selfish – only that _I am_ selfish, for better or worse. But Annika, I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of what I did." He shakes his head, just with little motions. "I've put you in danger . . . I used to tell you I would never do that, when you were little and frightened by storms, do you remember? I would make you sit outside with me to watch them come. You could get so upset sometimes. It was difficult for both of us . . . And to ease your fears, I'd remind you that I would never put you in any danger."

This time when Eric steps towards me with his hand raised, I stay perfectly still. He cups my chin and brushes his thumb over my cheek with the delicate touch no one has ever been able to mimic. "And I swear to you, I never intended to. I'm sorry this is happening."

By this point, I've pretty much forgiven him for every bad thing he's ever done, but before I can say so, he's holding my shoulders and speaking in that firm-kind way again. "I am _trying_ to make things up to you. Don't make it difficult for me, or for yourself. Just . . . be a good girl and go to Sweden. Peacefully."

I set my eyes on his stomach, hair falling in my face as I do. _Be a good girl._ He used to say that every time he left the farm. And I would always try to be, try _so hard_ to be. Not because he brought me toys or candy if my nannies gave good reports, not because he disciplined me if they did not, but because nothing in the world was as wonderful and important as Eric's approval.

 _And nothing_ is _. Nothing_ is _as wonderful and important as Eric's approval._

But no. No, that's just not true. Well – it's only half-true. Yes, in my heart, right or wrong, nothing in the world is as wonderful as Eric's approval. Just like when I was a little girl. But I'm not a little girl anymore, and my heart doesn't get to decide what I do, not on its own. My head has at least as much of a say. It should probably have more of a say than my heart, really – heads are practical, hearts are not, and I'm supposed to be practical. And practical me, the me that lives entirely in my head, understands that there _are_ more important things than Eric's approval. Things like . . . like not running away, and not abandoning people you love, especially when . . . when you might not have that much time left with them.

My heart wants me to be a good girl and go to Sweden, peacefully, but my head – my head knows that that isn't the kind of _good girl_ I want to be. And what's more, my head is pretty sure – _I'm_ pretty sure that, deep down, that's not the kind of _good girl_ Eric wants me to be, either. Even if it would put his mind at ease right now.

Eric tucks hair behind my ear, bringing me back to him, here and now. "You did promise, when we were in Dallas, to get on a plane the next time I told you to get on a plane," he reminds me in a half-joking way.

"Eric," I say, "I _do_ remember you taking me out to watch the storms coming. Or at least I think I do. I remember that the house would shake when it thundered enough, and I remember sitting in your lap and trying to get as small as I could. And I remember you telling me to be brave. Telling me that I wantedto be someone who was brave. And I did. And I do."

Eric says nothing. His hands still rest on my shoulders, and I touch one, just to guarantee one more tender moment between us before I make my final stand.

"I'm not going to Sweden, Eric. Not willingly. I'm sorry if that makes things difficult for you. That's not my intention." I run my tongue along my mouth, trying to find some moisture. "I won't cause any trouble here, and . . . I'll accept whatever punishment you see fit without resistance. For what it's worth." With that, I let my eyes return to his stomach.

Eric takes his hands away. With his head low, he walks to the door, where he stops with his back to me. I study the muscles in his shoulders and arms, muscles which I imagine were quite capable before he was a vampire. He's been a vampire for a thousand years, though. What are those muscles capable of now?

_Brushing tears from my face. Carrying me. Rubbing my back. One spanking. One slap across the face. Stroking my hair. Keeping me still. Grabbing my shirt. Holding me. Protecting me._

Eric twists at the waist and locks his eyes with mine. "I am about to reinforce behavior which, under normal circumstances, I do not tolerate. Make no mistake, I don't appreciate defiance from you. If it becomes a habit, with me or with Pam, it will be broken, and it will be broken quickly. Oh, and as for that simply adorable _Fuck Eric_ moment – we are never going to mention that again. Nor will anything like it ever _happen_ again, because I also don't appreciate disrespect from you. Is all of that clear?"

"Yes, Eric."

"Good." He turns to the door again, stops, and adds, "Things could go badly for us, Annika."

"I know."

I think he nods, maybe just to himself. Then he reaches for the doorknob. "I'll cancel your flight."


	26. I Like You More

I wake up hours before I'm supposed to – again – the next evening, and, once I prove to myself that I'm not going back to sleep anytime soon, I shower, dress, and go into Eric's office, where I use his computer to search the phrase  _how to reduce anxiety._ If Eric feels too much discomfort from me, he'll give me a pill. If he gives me a pill, my abilities won't be at their best. If my abilities aren't at their best, I could miss something that might be of help to Eric. And my missing something is not an option. Or, it shouldn't be. I don't want it to be. So I search.

I find a list titled  _7 Ways to Reduce Anxiety Naturally_ , and in the remaining time before sunset, I try most of its suggestions: I drink chamomile tea, I make myself eat a healthy breakfast of yogurt and berries, I exercise with some jumping jacks and push-ups and – of course – pacing, I meditate for a while (I think I meditate – I  _try_ to), and I return to the computer to look up pictures of rabbits (the closest thing I can get to  _#6, Spend Time with a Pet_ ). The only two things on the list I don't try are  _#3, Outdoor Time,_ because I'm not allowed outdoors, and  _#7, Sex/Masturbation,_ because I could only do one of those things, and I've never tried it, nor am I really sure what it even  _means_ to try it. But, still – I do five out of the seven things, and that's a lot.

And I think it works, too, those five-out-of-seven things on the list. At least somewhat. I feel not-totally-awful when Eric and Pam get up, and Eric – upon finding me looking at rabbit websites in his office – asks if I want a pill but doesn't make me take one when I say no. And he would, if he thought I was really bad.

He does, however, remind me in a distracted way not to use his computer without permission, then tells me to go clean the bar. I protest that part, because he never makes me clean the bar, and the only reason he's telling me to right now is to keep me busy, which is fine, but surely there's something more useful I can do. I say all of this, and he responds with, "Annika, you promised not to cause trouble while you're here. Is arguing with me the best way to go about that?"

So I go out to the bar and start cleaning.

Here's the thing, though, the thing I sometimes forget myself: I like cleaning. I always have. When I was little, I'd sometimes ask my nannies if I could clean the kitchen after they made a meal. I'd wipe the counters, wash the dishes, and have a lovely time doing so. I liked – I still like – taking something that looks bad and making it look good again, making it look like it's meant to.

So, tonight, as I sweep the bar floor with these long, slow motions – and my reduce-anxiety-naturally attempts maybe continue to sink into my body – I fall into a nearly-comfortable, nearly-mindless place. I don't fall deep enough to forget about the bigger picture – the bigger, terrifying picture – but my awareness of it is sort of pushed to the edges of my brain, because the center of my brain is occupied with getting this dirt and grime off the floor. That,  _that_  is something I can do. I can't keep Edgington from coming for Eric, no; I  _can_  make this floor positively gleam.

So I work, and I'm in the middle of debating whether I should keep sweeping dirt into one pile or start a second one nearby when the front door opens and I nearly drop the broom. In walks Sookie Stackhouse, her hair in a ponytail, lips pursed and brown eyes focused on whatever goal she has in her head. When our eyes meet, she pours into me a mixture of bubbling fear and prickly anger. "Annika," she says stiffly. "Where's Eric?"

"Hello, Sookie. I'm happy to see you, too." I look past her, at the closing door. It's usually unlocked at night, sure, but I would have thought Pam and Eric might be doing things differently right now. Are they expecting someone else? Or is there just no point in locking doors, because the only person who might come for Eric is Edgington and Edgington won't be stopped by locks?

_Don't. Don't start thinking like that. You just stopped._

I give Sookie my attention again. I really  _am_ happy – or something – to see her. As far as I knew, she was still trapped in Mississippi. "How did you get away from Edgington?"  _You know – the man who won't be stopped by locks?_

"Bill and I broke out, no thanks to – never mind." Sookie huffs out a breath, starts another sentence, and is cut off by me.

"Wait, Bill had to break out? I thought he was with Mississippi now."

"The only reason he was in Mississippi in the first place is 'cause Russell forced him there. And then ordered Lorena to  _kill_  him."

"Lorena?" I've heard that name before.

"Bill's maker. She was in Mississippi, too. You never met her?"

I shake my head. Lorena . . .  _Lorena thinks you tried to kill one of my werewolves._ Edgington said that to Eric, when we were in the limo on the way to Sophie-Anne. "Maybe I did," I add, remembering the tall female vampire I saw – granted, while in a daze – as I walked back to Eric's and my room after the crown incident.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Sookie says. "You'll never see her again. She's dead."

I squint at Sookie. "You staked her." And I'm completely certain of it, because being a psychic isn't all anxiety and flashes of horrible events. Every now and then, you get to sense something not-painful, too. Well. Not painful to yourself.

Sookie works her mouth, as if she's tasting something bad. "Believe me, she had it coming."

"But . . . You said she was Bill's maker, you  _staked_ Bill's maker –?"

"Some maker! She was  _torturin'_ him! She was about to kill him!"

I consider this. Bill's maker, tormenting him like that?  _Any_ maker, for that matter? Granted, I haven't known all that many vampires on a personal level, but – to imagine Eric hurting Pam? Or Godric hurting Eric? Even Bill himself hurting Jessica – and I've only seen them together once or twice – sounds ridiculous. "I don't understand, how could –"

"Annika!" Sookie closes her eyes, inhales, and opens them again, speaking in a kinder voice now, a voice that's more familiar. "Annika, I don't wanna be rude. I know you haven't done anything wrong, and I like to think you and me are friends. But honey, things are kinda crazy in my life right now, and I imagine it's the same way in yours, and I just really need to talk to Eric, okay? So can you please go get him for me? Or just tell me where he is?"

I grip the broom with both hands, balancing the bristles against the floor so the handle sticks straight up like a tree. Or a sword. Eric is in his office, or  _was_ , the last I saw him. But Eric is in the middle of thinking, thinking,  _thinking,_ I assume about how he's going to take on Edgington, who – regardless of his reasons for not having done so yet – could come for Eric at any moment.

I don't think he will, though. Because I think Edgington suspects the same thing I do: Eventually, Eric will come to  _him,_ come to him and try to put a plan in play. And Edgington is giving him time to create that plan because – I think, I worry – he doesn't think there  _is_ a plan Eric can come up with that will work. And the longer Eric puts off their meeting, the longer the whole, horrible thing drags on. It's just more torture for Eric. And for those he cares about.

On the other hand, Russell Edgington could be too insane to think that thoroughly about anything.

"Annika," Sookie says, interrupting my thoughts – to my gratitude, actually. "Please. Where's Eric?"

"Sookie, I . . . I'm glad you're okay. Truly. And I'm . . ."  _I'm sorry my guardian apparently did nothing whatsoever to help you while you were being held captive by a crazy three-thousand-year old vampire. Also, that I borrowed your coat and lost it._ ". . . I'm just, I'm glad. But – now is not a good time. Eric's very busy."

"With what, exactly?"

"I don't know. He doesn't tell me these things." I feel a deep-down spark of oddly-placed joy at this lie, because this is the first time I've said anything like that and it  _has_ been a lie.

"Well, he wasn't too busy to drop by Bon Temps last night, be cryptic, and fly away."

I didn't know he went to Bon Temps last night. I knew he went somewhere, but only because I felt him get back – I missed him leave totally, which is good, because it probably would have terrified me. He never told me where he'd gone.

Wait –

"Cryptic?" I repeat. "Cryptic about what?"

Uncertainty comes across Sookie's expression and off her heart or soul or whatever part of the body feels things, because I pick it up from her. "Well, he just said – it's just somethin' he said, is all."

"What did he –"

I'm interrupted by a  _thud_  from behind me, followed by Pam's voice, and although her tone would be best suited for something like  _We have a rat infestation,_ what she says is, "Why, Miss Stackhouse. What a pleasant surprise. Whatever can I do for you?"

Sookie squares her feet, her body and attention now directed at Pam. "I need to see Eric."

Pam puts her hands on her hips. "Not even a please?" Pam – her hair is straightened, her makeup is done, she's in a grey blazer-and-skirt combo that would look normal, I think, in an office, but also out at dinner or a party or another human event. I can't help but wonder, even now, if I'll be so devoted to always looking my best once I'm wearing makeup and things. I also can't help but note, with a bit of satisfaction, that Sookie said please to  _me._

And  _now_ Sookie says, "Pam, I'm not messin' around here! I  _need_ to see Eric, and I'm not leavin' 'til I do!"

"Stop screaming at me, blondie. I can hear you all too well. While you're at it, stop making demands inside.  _My._ Bar." Pam's expression is the expression of someone who has been through everything you could possibly think of and truly has no more patience for anything else. I feel a twinge of affection for her, even though I'm still mad at her over last night.

Sookie takes a step forward, but I'm still in between her and Pam, who hangs back by the door like she doesn't expect her business here to take long. "Listen to me. I don't know what's goin' on here, but I know Eric's worried about somethin', and I know it's – I know I'm not gonna be able to get it outta my mind until I know exactly  _what_ it is, because – I don't know, just because. And considerin' –" She glances towards me. ". . . Considerin'  _everything that's happened_  the past few days, I think the least he can do is see me for a couple of minutes."

"Really? I think the least he can do is . . . see you for none."

"Pam, I swear, I'll start screamin' his name."

"Well, I always knew you would eventually."

"Pam!"

 _"_ Ugh –  _Fine._ I'll take you back. But don't be surprised when he kicks you out almost as fast as I would."

Sookie cocks her head to the side in a  _we'll-see-about-that_ way. She starts towards Pam and the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, but pauses beside me. In the low voice you might use when you want someone to know you're talking just to them, a  _confidential_ sort of voice, she says, "I'm sorry if I sounded mean before. I'm glad you're okay, too. And I really do like to think of us as friends." With that, she touches my shoulder, and I'm taken somewhere else. Except no, not really. I'm in the bar, just in a different spot, a spot from which I watch as Eric and Russell Edgington pin Sookie to a table. Pin Sookie to a table and  _feed on her._  While she screams.

When I come back to this spot, my spot in reallife, Sookie has already passed me. She's almost to the door, and before I can think at all, I call after her in a tone that may be,  _may_ be a bit too high-pitched. She turns back to me, blinking, and . . .

_Annika, what are you doing? What are you going to tell her? 'Don't go back there – Eric, my guardian, whom I love more than anything, to whom I'm totally loyal, might be about to hurt you. No, I don't know why. But . . . just so you know.'_

"I . . . We stopped by your house, before we went to Mississippi, and I borrowed your coat. But I left it at Edgington's. I'm sorry. Mention it to Eric. He'll compensate you."

Sookie smiles. It's a forced smile, the sort of smile Eric tried the other night as he gave me pills, but Sookie can somehow force pleasantness onto her lips as well as just the smile-shape. "Don't worry about it." She walks through the door, held open by Pam. Pam, who knows me much, much better than Sookie does. Pam, who eyes me with a strong  _What just happened?_ on her face.

I give her an  _I need to talk to you_ look. At least, that's what I try to do. And she gets it, she gives me a nod, because we might be fighting, we might not like each other half the time, but – aside from Eric – there's no one on Earth who knows me as well as Pam or knows Pam as well as me.

Pam follows Sookie into the back but returns in about thirty seconds. "You saw something, didn't you?" she says in a low voice, arms swinging as she strides to me in a way that defines  _no-nonsense_.

I say yes and describe the vision to her, letting myself wring my hands as I do. They're too damp. God, the human body has some really annoying qualities, doesn't it?

The vision was short and doesn't take long to explain, and when I'm done, Pam tells me, "Don't move," and goes into the back. She comes back almost as quickly as she did the first time, but now she has Eric with her. "Tell him."

Eric looks expectantly at me –  _questioningly,_ might be better to say – and I tell him.

After I've finished, he asks, "Russell and I were both feeding on her?"

"Yes."

"You saw our faces? You saw them clearly?"

"Yes."

Pam pivots from me to Eric, driving her heel into the floor as she faces him. "You see? You're too busy signing wills and making out with the solution instead of  _using her."_

I almost say  _What?_  partly because of the  _making out_ part – Sookie spoke like she was still with Bill – and partly because of the  _using her_ part, but I manage to catch myself before I say anything about anything, because that's my best chance of getting to hear this conversation.

"There isn't any way to use her," Eric says.

Pam points at me. "Did you not hear what she just said?"

"It won't work."

"Yes, it would, Eric – It  _will!_ Why else would Annika see something like that?"

"Annika's made mistakes before."

And now I  _have_ to speak. "This isn't a mistake. I told you – I  _saw_ you and Russell. And Sookie – all of it, it was perfectly clear. Pam's right – I wouldn't see something like that if it wasn't going to happen."

Eric doesn't look at me. "We don't understand everything about your abilities."

"Oh,  _come on,_ Eric!" Pam says. "You didn't pay a fortune for a pocket-sized psychic just to ignore her every time she says something you don't like!"

I'm very similar to Pam in that I'm not likely to take anyone's side over Eric's. Not even hers. But with that comment, Pam has my full, undivided support – not to mention love – in spite of my not really understanding what's going on.

"We know Russell wants Sookie," Pam continues. "Give her to him to save your own skin!"

And suddenly she doesn't have my support so much.

 _Why not?_ a voice in my head challenges at the same time Eric says, "No," to Pam, who clenches her teeth.

"He's gonna get her anyway. Sooner or later."

 _Then we need to give him Sookie,_ that challenging voice insists.  _If Russell Edgington will get her no matter what, we're not really protecting Sookie by not handing her over, right? We're only putting off the inevitable. And if giving Sookie up will save Eric . . ._

 _"No,"_ Eric growls. "I won't do that to her."

"Eric." I didn't decide to speak, not consciously, but it's happened, and now two very powerful, very tense vampires are glaring at me. I only focus on Eric, though. "I don't – I don't want anything bad to happen to Sookie, either, but if this could get Edgington to leave you alone –"

"Annika, you are the last person who should want to convince me to bribe Edgington by offering him a human with special abilities!" Eric gets increasingly annoyed – or increasingly reveals his annoyance – with each word, until annoyance has come to sound a lot like anger. The cutting kind. Or I suppose it could be the words themselves that do all the cutting. Yes, they certainly do a lot. I stare at a spot on the floor and wrap my arms around myself.

Three seconds later, I hear, "I shouldn't have said that, Annika, and whatever horrible thing your mind is interpreting from it, I did not mean. But I am not giving Sookie to Edgington. That's final."

"Annika," Pam says. "Go to your room."

I obey, not checking with Eric before I do so. Well, I sort of obey, I obey as much it matters – I don't go to my room, but I go into the back, and I pace the piece of hallway beside Eric's office. I can feel Sookie behind the door. Sookie, who I like. Sookie, who thinks of us as friends. Sookie, whom I just told Eric to give to an evil lunatic. Sookie, whom I still want Eric to give to an evil lunatic.

_It's her or Eric. It's her or Eric. It's her or Eric._

That's all it comes down to.

I pace for a long time, long enough that my legs get tired. But, finally, the EMPLOYEES ONLY door opens, and Eric comes down the hall to me. His eyes flicker to the door as he nears but return to mine soon enough. "If I hurt your feelings before, I had no intentions of doing so. But if you're actually worried I'd ever give you to Edgington, then honestly, sweetheart, I don't know what more I can do to convince you –"

 _"You need to give her to him."_ I speak in Swedish, because – having experience in this area – I know Sookie can hear us from inside the office, if she's standing close enough to the door.

"Annika –"

 _"I like her,_ Eric,  _I do."_ I put everything I have into the look I give him.  _"I like you more."_

I think I see Eric's shoulders lower a little. Maybe he sighs, or maybe something else leaves him. I don't know. I can't really see his face, since he has to tilt his head down quite a bit to look at me, and the hallway lights are so dim, and his features are therefore all but hidden in shadow. That said, I'm not sure if they would give much away if they weren't. It depends on how much Eric might  _want_ them to give away, really.

 _"You need to give her to him,"_ I repeat, hearing Pam's voice in mine. Which, right now, is okay.

And Eric, Eric says, "Go to your room, Annika." Not angrily – almost gently, actually, which is confusing. But he says it, so I walk to my door. Before I go through it, though, he adds – this time, he speaks in Swedish, too –  _"If you hear anything unusual in the next few minutes, do not come out to investigate."_

His eyes are two shining spots in a black-and-grey Eric-shape.

_"And please remember you are dearer to me than you can know."_

I stare at him, and I stare at him, and I'm confused, I am so confused and suddenly I'm so  _scared_ , not scared in the in-the-background way I've been ever since Eric said  _We need sanctuary,_ but immediately, painfully, wholeheartedly scared. "Eric . . . ?"

 _"It's alright, little one,"_ he soothes. He can feel my fear, of course – and he could have heard it in my voice even if I'd never had his blood, and probably have seen it, too, I'm sure it's written on my face like graffiti, but I don't care, I don't care at all.  _"Just go into your room."_

Like a machine that's been powered on, I lift my hand to the doorknob, squeeze it, and twist. I push the door open, because that's the next step. The final one, though, is to actually enter the room, which means looking away from Eric. So that step, that step takes a little longer than the others. But I do it. I enter the room. I close the door behind me, back away, and stop. I stop moving, stop breathing, stop doing anything that might make noise – although I can't get my heart to cooperate. My heart beats and beats like a prisoner I've locked away, a prisoner desperate to be heard by someone, anyone.

A scream comes through the wall. A squeal, really – it's short and sharp. Surprised. Then I hear,  _"Let me go!"_

Of course it's Sookie.

I find my way to the bed, stepping softly, so I don't miss anything happening outside. Not the crashing sound of something, multiple somethings, falling to the office floor. Not the furious cries of  _Eric!_ and  _What are you doing?_ and  _Stop!_ that come from the hallway, the cries that grow fainter and fainter until they're gone. Gone, because Eric has taken Sookie down to the basement. To the dungeon. That's the only thing that makes sense.

I squeeze the edge of my mattress with both hands, squeeze until the squishy material won't give anymore.  _This is what you wanted. This is what has to happen. This is what can save Eric._

And Eric, he leaves Fangtasia just minutes later. I can only sense him leave or arrive maybe half the time he does so, but  _this_  time, this time I feel him lift away from the club – from me – so strongly and clearly that I can't believe it ever happens without my noticing, without my  _dropping everything_ and noticing. And then he's gone, he's gone he's gone he's  _gone,_ and I'm left with the storm inside of me, the storm that's all my own, as well as the rage and fear weaving a small, steady trail into my room, a trail I could follow like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale from here to Sookie Stackhouse.

But I don't want to do that. I do, however, sit and feel what she feels – I don't even try not to, don't ask me why. And though I'd never admit it to anyone, I whisper to my empty room, "I'm  _sorry."_


	27. The Worst Part

All at once and out of nowhere, I sense three things – that is, three things besides the dark, spiking emotions of Sookie Stackhouse. If you've ever taken a drink of something, accidentally gulped down more than you meant to, and felt that painful stretching in your throat as it opened wider than it should, than you sort of know how I feel right now. I'm not supposed to hold so much, and all of me doesn't stretch as well as my throat. My abilities and what they pick up don't seem to care about how well all of me can stretch. And, maybe because I've already been so open to what's happening inside Sookie, I seem to be quite . . . tuned in.

The three things are this: First, an anxiety – no, just – just  _tension_ from Pam. She's suddenly on edge. And that probably has to do with the second thing – Bill Compton, whom I feel as clearly now as I did at the King's – at  _Edgington's_ mansion, when Eric said Bill's name while Edgington and Talbot listened and lied. Tonight, Bill's presence makes itself clear to me without any sort of invitation, and Bill, Bill is not happy. Bill, like Pam, is on edge. Only he's not calm about it, like she is. He's angry. Not  _raging,_ but . . . he might get there soon.

_He knows Sookie is here._

Although I distinctly felt  _three_  separate things at once, I'm on my feet because of the first two before I remember to evaluate the third. It's smaller, somehow, and it's Yvetta. She's a bundle of irritation beneath Pam's coolness and Bill's bubbling sort of . . . something, and I toss that bundle aside and dart from the room, only to almost run into Yvetta herself. She's leaving Eric's office, dressed in an overly-fuzzy fur coat, dragging a little red suitcase behind her. I dodge her, barely, and keep running. She snaps something after me in her language, then adds what sounds like, "Leetle beetch!" and I regret ever feeling anything like sorry for her.

I hear noises from the bar even before I reach the EMPLOYEES ONLY door – the distinct sound of glass breaking, something heavy and hard hitting the floor, and shouts and grunts from both Bill and Pam. In other words, I hear noises that mean  _fight._ Noises that mean  _stay out of here if you know what's good for you._

I register all of that, right down to the stay-out-of-here part, and go through the door anyway.

The bar isn't quite  _a mess_ , but it's  _messy_ – two tables are overturned, along with four or five chairs, at least two of which belong to neither table and one of which seems to have been thrown into a wall. Some posters have been torn down, too, and – I can't help but notice – the dirt pile I earlier so carefully swept up seems to have exploded.

Pam and Bill are to my right, behind the bar. Both have their fangs out. Shards of glass shine at their feet as Bill attempts to pin Pam to the bar's surface.  _Attempts._ Pam struggles against his hold, which doesn't seem totally secure, and as Bill fights to keep her down he twists his head my way, which is how I see that something's really, really wrong with his face. It's burned up – not totally, but like he has some horrible form of vampire chicken pox. His eyes are open but swollen and red in a way I've never seen before on anyone, and, judging from how he's handling Pam, I don't think they're working very well.

Pam knocks Bill away, and then she's behind him, slamming his head down on the bar hard enough to make him cry out (but I think it's at least partly out of anger – anger is definitely getting stronger inside of him). Even as she does so, she says, "Annika, get  _out_  of here!"

Bill has just escaped Pam's hold when I push into the hallway again. Back behind the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, I hear Pam whisper something, and then Bill yells and there are more crashing noises. I dig my fingernails into my palms, knowing better than to go back in there but hating the idea of walking away and pretending it's not happening, of – what? Just waiting for this to be over? Hoping for the best?

I don't have to do that, though, nor do I have to stand around listening to the fight, because movement down the hall tugs my eyes over just in time to see an arm covered in fur and a long leg ending in a stiletto heel disappear into the basement. The door falls shut. All that is left behind is a little red suitcase.

_Oh no. Oh no, no, no –_

I race down the hall and throw my weight against the basement door, even as a little voice – an  _oblivious_ little voice that only understands rules, not situations – reminds me I'm still not technically allowed in the basement. The door opens and cold, wet air rushes over me like it's trying to push me back out.

"Beeg, blonde, stupeed, I  _hate!"_ Yvetta is saying as I take five or six steps down, my feet a blur.

"Me, too," Sookie says back. "He's a sneaky, two-faced son-of-a –"

The door slams behind me, blocking out the hallway's already-dim lights and leaving only the basement's even-dimmer emergency lights to show me what's down here. Sookie is on her knees in the middle of the basement – the  _dungeon_  – chained to the wall by an iron collar around her neck. Yvetta shrugs out of her jacket and fumbles with a set of keys – keys, keys, where the  _hell_ did she get those  _keys?_  – and now she jabs one into the collar, and I lean over the railing, probably too far.

"Yvetta, don't! You can't! Eric –"

"No, leetle beetch! Leetle beetch  _Pam!"_

"Annika, you gotta see this isn't right!" Sookie says as Yvetta lifts the collar from her neck. "I know you love Eric, but –"

I don't hear what she says after that. I'm already up the stairs and through the door.

I run back into the bar with Pam's name on my lips, but I never say it. It becomes clear quite quickly that doing so would be pointless. Pam and Bill are on the floor, Pam on top of him, pressing her knees into his shoulders while spraying his face with something from a bottle too small for me to see. Whatever it is, it causes Bill to howl, causes his skin to smoke, those chicken-pox-things to spread. But even as he screams, his hands dig into Pam's hair, and he yanks her head left and right and left and right, until Pam starts to scream, too, out of rage as much as pain, and she doesn't so much as pause with the spray.

_Pam can't get away. Even if she could, she couldn't get Sookie back to the basement, not with Bill here, even if he is hurt, even if he is_ blind.  _He's older than Pam, he's stronger, and he loves Sookie, he wouldn't let Pam chain her up again, he'd find a way to stop her, so – so – so –_

_So what are you gonna do, Annika? What are you gonna do about this?_

The answer comes to me like a picture in a storybook. Like a fantasy, in other words, not like something I could actually do. But . . . I can do it, can't I?

_Of course you can. If Ginger could, you can._

I'm behind the bar before I can think the idea all the way through. There's no time for thinking it all the way through. Pam is screaming and Sookie is escaping and Eric is God knows where. There's no time for thinking.

I search by the cash register, I throw open the cupboard beneath the sink, but I finally find what I'm looking for tucked behind the microwave, and though it feels so heavy and wrong in my hand, I wrap my fingers tight around the cold little thing and head, once again, to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door.

In the hallway, I come face-to-face with Yvetta and Sookie. Yvetta left her jacket and suitcase by the basement door. She's grinning, until she sees me, and what I have. Then she looks quite different. Sookie was never grinning. The look on her face was one of grim determination before she noticed me, and now, as both women stop like they've hit an invisible wall, Sookie's expression changes into one of shock. She's brought from the basement a heavy chain she clenches with both hands – just one hand, now. The chain, it's silver, I can tell by the color, and as Sookie's arms drop to her sides, the end of the chain whacks against the floor with an almost musical sound. "Oh, Annika, no."

I don't know what she means by  _no,_ not exactly. But I know I've got a gun pointed at her chest. And that means she's not the one here who gets to say things like  _no_.

"You have to go back," I say in a voice that is not quite my own.

"Annika, please don't point that thing at me. You can't know how to use it, someone's gonna get hurt –"

I push the gun further from my body, jabbing it out at Sookie like maybe that will spook her enough to send her running to the basement. "No one will get hurt as long as  _you go back._ You  _have_ to go back, Sookie. Eric  _has_ to give you to Edgington, okay? That's – that's how he gets Edgington to leave him alone. I'm . . . I wish it wasn't that way, but it is, so you – you have to go back to the basement."

The gun is shaking, I can't make it stop – my hands, I can't make them stop. When I watched Ginger point this gun at Lafayette not all that long ago –

_But wasn't it? Wasn't it a really, really long time ago?_

– I thought it was ridiculous of her, letting the gun shake so much, but I get it now. The gun weighs more than you might think, and . . . and it feels different than you might think. It feels different than  _I_ might have thought. Like – I might have thought the gun would feel like  _power_  and  _control_. Yes, I might have thought that, briefly. But it doesn't. Even though I've made Yvetta and Sookie stop, even though Yvetta's eyes are round and she's starting to drip both panic and sweat, I don't feel powerful, I don't feel in control. I feel like a girl who's fallen into a movie and been told to play a character who is much, much older than she is. And who is absolutely not the hero.

Sookie takes a step forward. "Honey, there's no way Eric wants you to do this."

"You don't know Eric as well as I do. Not nearly as well."

"I know he'd never want you to get hurt! I know he'd never want you to shoot someone, maybe kill someone, and have to live with that for the rest of your life!"

Of course he'd never want that, and no, he'd never want me to get hurt, Sookie is entirely correct on that – but Eric hurt me himself, in Edgington's mansion. He bruised me. Because he had to. Sometimes it's not about what you want, is it? Sometimes, sometimes it's about what you have to do.

Sookie stretches out a hand, eyes on mine, not on the gun. "Annika, come on . . ."

_I really do like to think of us as friends._

Sookie takes another step.

_She's close – she's too close!_

"Don't!" I say through my teeth, stepping back. In the next room, something slams into the floor or one of the walls and Pam more-or-less roars.

_This would be so easy for Pam. Just a gun and a hostage. The simplest thing in the world._

"Annika – forget Eric, alright? Forget what I said, forget about what he does or doesn't want. Think about yourself." Sookie shakes her head. "You're eleven years old. There's no way  _you_ wanna do this."

I swallow, hard, to try and get my throat and tongue even just a little wet, and I ask Sookie, I ask her, "What else am I supposed to do?" The swallowing didn't work. My voice is raspy like the sound of a chair being dragged across concrete, and what's more, my words wobble almost as much as the gun, the gun, the gun, which begins to blur and blend with Sookie's shape and colors. "I don't know  _what else to do!"_

_THUD!_ Something rams into the wall just outside the EMPLOYEE'S ONLY door, and I whip my head towards it, because maybe Pam just won, maybe Pam is about to appear and –

The gun vanishes from my hands, as smoothly and simply as a bird taking off, and I stare at my stupid empty fingers while Sookie bolts past me, taking the gun and the jangling silver chain with her. Yvetta follows, moving faster in those shoes than any non-vampire should. I'm alone in the hall, then. Alone and an idiot. A useless, scared little fool.

_I remember you telling me to be brave,_ I said to Eric last night when we talked about storms.  _Telling me that I wanted to be someone who was brave. And I did. And I do._

I do, I do. But I'm not.

I hear Pam scream, and I reach out to the wall for support, my free forearm pressed so hard against my mouth that my lips nearly split, because that was the worst scream I've heard tonight. It was a scream not all that far from the kind Pam made with the magister.

And here comes that phrase again, that horrible echo in my brain:  _Everything is falling apart._

_Eric,_ I beg in my mind, trying to drown it out, that echo, _Eric, come back. From wherever you are, come back and kill Bill and chain Sookie up and fix everything, okay? Just come back._

But he can't hear me. I know he can't. I'm not powerful enough. Yes, I've read that some psychics – at least supposedly – can send messages like that, can talk to people from far away, even really far away, as easily as they could pick up a phone and –

I shove away from the wall. "Oh, how  _stupid –?"_

I don't let myself finish. I run – fly – down the hall.

I use the office doorframe to stop, and I'm a little aware of pain from that, but I'm in the office now, and I have the phone to my ear and I'm dialing Eric's number faster than I've ever done anything in my life, and I wait, and the ringing starts, and nothing,  _nothing_ drags on quite like the ring of a phone when you really need someone to answer. And I have to listen to four rings. And then I have to listen to, "You've reached Eric Northman. Leave a message," and a beep. I press my hand into my forehead.

"Eric, please, you have to come back, Sookie –"

Oddly, I register the rush of air through my hair before anything else that happens in the next moment, so for the barest slice of time a piece of me soars because it thinks Eric has returned. But the rush of air was not from Eric speeding into the office, ready to save the day; it was from Bill Compton speeding into the office, ready to ruin my life. And it seems he's decided to start by ripping the phone cord from the wall. The shiny end of the cord, the end meant to be in its special phone socket, almost looks embarrassed as it dangles from Bill's hand.

Bill is deformed and swollen-eyed, but he's healing. The spots on his face are closing and fading before my eyes. He can already see, I know, because his gaze is focused on me. Focused on me, and . . . sad.

"I am so sorry this is your life," he says.

Do you want to know the worst part? I believe him. I want to hate him, I need to, and doing that would be so much easier if I thought he enjoyed watching me watch my world crumble. But he doesn't. Looking at him, and maybe feeling him, I'm all but certain that Bill Compton truly wishes he could spare me what I'm feeling now.

"I hate you," I spit anyway, because easy or not, I have to try.

Bill's head falls to the side, and if anything, he just looks sadder. Then, in typical, infuriatingly-rapid vampire fashion, he has me sitting in one of the chairs in front of Eric's desk with my hands tied to an armrest, one on top of the other. He uses the phone cord to do it. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Do you want to know the worst part of  _this?_ Eric's office has a latch on the outside, because Eric leads the sort of life in which the ability to lock people in his office can be useful. And had Bill Compton bothered to notice that latch, then at least I could have  _paced_  while being held prisoner in my own home.

_That's not the worst part of this._

No. Of course not. It sounds cool to say, but it's a lie. The truth is, there is no worst part here. Or if there is, I can't see it, I can't pick it out from all of the other black, painful parts of this situation. So I just rest my head against my hands, the cord pressing into my cheek, and let the situation, in all of its terribleness, have me.

The cord.

The  _cord._

I sit up straight and study the dull white thing wrapped so many times around my wrists. Bill and Sookie disappear from my radar, I feel that happen, but I expected them to and don't think about it more. The cord is what I need to focus on right now. The cord, which is so much like the various cords from my childhood in Sweden – including the cord to the computer in Eric's study, the cord to the DVD player in the library, the cord to a hairdryer belonging to one of my nannies. Cords that had nothing in common with one another, except that they – along with all too many others – met their ends at the hands of Beowulf. My sweet boy was so well behaved, for the most part, but he loved, loved,  _loved_ chewing things. And nothing so much as cords.

With him in mind, I bend my head back to my hands and go to work.


	28. The Only Other Person

Later, as I leave the office (rubbing my wrists as I do), yet another scream rings through the building. It doesn't worry me much, though, because I sensed Ginger arrive a few minutes ago (shortly after I sensed Yvetta leave), and this is definitely Ginger's scream. And Ginger screams almost as often as she breathes.

I run to the bar, anyway. Just to be safe.

I find Pam sitting on the tiny circle-stage surrounding one of the dancers' poles, a silver chain – the one Sookie had – lying a safe distance away. Ginger is in Pam's lap, squirming and shrieking as Pam drinks from her neck.

I fold my hands together, meaning to wait until Pam's finished. She needs the blood. There's enough of a gap between her shoes and the hem of her pants for me to see burn marks on her bare ankles. Sookie and Bill – and Yvetta, I guess – chained Pam up. They had to, naturally, in order to get away. I can't _blame_ them for it, really . . . but I won't say I won't think about those burn marks the next time I'm trying to hate Bill Compton.

Despite my intentions, Pam smells me, or hears the EMPLOYEES ONLY door open and close, and she puts her feeding on hold to look up and check me over. Ginger's screaming, in the meantime, fades to heavy breathing. "You hurt?" Pam asks me.

"No," Ginger pants. "You just took me off-guard, is all, you gotta warn me –"

Pam claps a hand over her mouth and waits for my answer.

"No."

"Good. Gimme a minute."

Pam slides her arm under Ginger's neck, leaving Ginger's lips free long enough for them to manage the words, "I was just _sayin' –"_ before Pam's teeth are in her again, and Ginger, of course, has to scream some more.

When that's all finished, and Ginger has gone grumbling to the storage room to replenish herself, Pam meets me by the bar. She uses her fingers to daintily wipe the corners of her mouth. "God, that woman's blood makes me feel like shit. She's all preservatives and nicotine. The vampire equivalent of a Happy Meal."

"Where did Eric go?"

"He had a meeting."

"You mean he went to meet Edgington."

Pam shrugs with one shoulder, scanning the room. Since my first examination of it, two more chairs are not only on their sides but broken, like one might expect them to be had they been, for instance, bashed over a vampire's head. The bar's surface is almost totally empty, wiped of all glasses, menus, and napkin holders, all of which are now scattered in front of and behind the bar, broken in some cases. One table is upside-down and by the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. I assume it was the makeshift weapon that made such a loud sound earlier and cost me the gun.

_You cost yourself the gun._

_No, that's not important right now._

"Did you call him?" I ask. "Eric?"

"What a good idea! Is that why we keep you around?"

I glare at her. No, I don't. I don't have it in me to _glare,_ I just look. Look and hurt and wish for my guardian.

Pam sees this, this not-glare I'm giving her, and looks away and down, a little. "Yes, I called him. He knows Sookie's gone, he knows Bill's with her, and he knows that, as an added bonus, Yvetta cleaned out the safe. Just a shining red cherry on top of the pile of shit that has been this week _._ "

"What are we gonna do about Sookie? I tried – I tried to stop her, but –"

"She can't run from Eric . . . Can't hide, at least. If we're lucky, Eric'll reach her before she gets to her house."

"Bill won't give her up without a fight."

"Then Eric will finally have a justifiable reason to kill Bill Compton and we'll have one less problem. Sadly, I doubt Bill is stupid enough to try and go hand-to-hand against Eric. Especially if Edgington's with him."

" _With_ him? With Eric?"

"Yes. If things have gone according to plan, and Edgington is convinced he should want Sookie – Eric didn't tell you this?"

I choose to skip past that. "I thought Edgington already wanted Sookie. Because she's a telepath."

"Well, Eric is giving Edgington another reason to want her. One that's even more compelling."

"What reason?"

"No, no more sharing. If Eric wanted you to know these things, he would've told you."

And now, _now_ I feel like glaring. Maybe I am, I don't know, I'm not aware of my face so much as my shoulders, the heatbuilding in them as my fingers roll to my palms. They feel so at home there these days. "Exactly what has to happen," I say, calmly, strangely enough, "before you and Eric stop keeping every other thing from me?"

"Exactly what has to happen before you stop making this Russell Edgington mess about yourself?"

"I don't know, Pam, maybe if you choke me some more. Or – _make me miss my black eye,_ I think that's how you put it. Eric's not here to stop you this time."

We both stare out at the bar. My instinct is to walk away, but that feels too childish. It is, right? If I say something, I should be able to stand here and live with it. And live with the response. So . . . Pam and I stare out at the bar. In silence. For a while.

"I did not _choke_ you," she finally says.

"Your hand was around my throat."

"You could breathe."

"Not as well as I generally like to."

She sighs one of her long, pointed sighs.

"It is entirely possible," she says, "that I didn't handle the situation in a manner most experts would recommend . . . I'm not Eric. He knows what to do with you. But _he_ signed up for it. _He_ bought you. _He_ read all the Dr. Spock crap and _he_ was with you while you toddled around soiling your diapers in Sweden. The original plan was that you wouldn't leave the farm until you were grown, you know. I was never supposed to need to know anything about . . . _children_. But then you went and started sensingthings way earlier, and way better, than Eric expected. And here we are . . . So maybe I was wrong last night. Maybe I was insensitive, even abusive. Fine. I'm an insensitive child abuser. I've been worse things. But I'll tell you this much, Annika: If any other human had pissed me off as much as you did, I would've snapped their neck just to shut them up. But it wasn't any other human, it was you. So . . . I made sure you could breathe."

With that, Pam uses the toe of her shoe to grind a piece of glass into the floor, scowling at it like it's more disgusting than inconvenient.

"Pam," I start, mostly because if I go too long without speaking, she'll end the conversation, and I don't want that to happen yet. But I don't know exactly what I want to say – what do you say to that? – so each sentence that comes out comes out slowly, freshly thought-up. "My favorite thing about you has always been that you don't treat me like a child. You said it yourself the other night, Eric does that too much. Well – you said he _coddles_ me, and I wouldn't use that word. But he overprotects me, that's definitely true, and I don't like it. Yousaid he wasn't doing me any favors, and I agree with you, so _of course_ I don't want you to do anything like that, to treat me like Eric treats me, I just –"

I just what? Why did I bring up last night in the first place? Was it out of anger, or something else? I replay the moment in my mind. Pam's fingers like iron around my throat, her fangs like blades above it. Me pulling at her arm, pulling with everything I had, and not moving it a millimeter. Me being totally helpless. Me being at Pam's mercy.

Me, with my heart pounding madly in my chest.

I was afraid.

"I just want to feel reasonably sure," I say, "that the only other person I really care about besides Eric won't hurt me. Even if I piss her off." Now it's my turn to grind some glass into the floor. It's rather satisfying. "I just want to be _sure_ , especially now, with what's happening. With Eric going against Edgington. Because if . . ." No, no, no. I abandon trying to say that and crush another piece of glass instead.

There's almost an insulting note to Pam's disbelief, an _Are you really that stupid?_ kind of note, when she says, "You seriously thought I was gonna hurt you?"

"You pinned me to the bed and hissed at me with your fangs out."

"I was making a point."

"That was after you pushed me against the wall and said you'd make me miss my black eye."

"Again, making a point, and if you had _seen_ that point, I wouldn't have – _ugh,_ forget it." For the first time since I brought up the incident, Pam looks directly at me. "I would never hurt you, Annika. Because Eric would kill me . . ." She crosses her arms and turns her eyes to the bar again. "And because . . . Because of other reasons." Her fingers tap in a wave on her arm – little finger, ring finger, middle, index. They do that three times, and then Pam says – and here, her voice becomes both softer and higher, and I know, I _know_ the wall she usually keeps up for everyone but Eric has gone down – "If Eric can't make a deal with Edgington, you'll become mine. And I will take care of you. If you think anything else, you're just being stupid. You're the only other person for me, too, you know."

We go back to silently staring at the bar. I don't know Pam's reasons for doing so. I only have one reason, really: I have to wait for the lump in my throat to go away before I talk again.

The lump does go away, though, creeping back to wherever throat-lumps go when you don't need to cry after all, and I ask, "Who's Dr. Spock?"

Pam clears her throat. "History's greatest parenting expert. Or so I'm told. Eric read his book and about a dozen others when he first got you."

Almost shyly, like they're not sure it's okay, my lips spread into a little grin. "Eric read parenting books?"

"He's always been a stickler for research." Pam's lips tilt up a bit, too, and the weight starts to go out of the room. "He probably still has one or two books on the subject somewhere in his office."

"Oh, that reminds me – the office is gonna need a new phone."

Over the next twenty minutes, Pam and I put what objects we can back into their proper places and clean up the remains of what objects we can't. Pam does most of the work, what with her having both super-strength and super-speed, but I help. I sweep, mainly, using the same spot as before for my dirt pile. Doing that feels like I'm winning against the world in one little, little way. Meanwhile, I tell Pam about Bill Compton tying me up and about how I got free, and she tells me the stuff she sprayed all over Bill was _colloidal silver_ – just silver in water. When I ask if I can have some, she pulls a little bottle from her bra and tosses it to me. So I have that now, which is pretty cool.

It's a nice twenty minutes. A stable, easy twenty minutes of putting our home back together, of fixing our piece of the universe. Of having control.

Then, as I'm sweeping the third and final load of dirt and glass shards into the dustpan, the front door flies open and Russell Edgington enters, grinning like an honored party guest. He wears a long coat that flutters behind him like a cape – no, a cloak, a villain's cloak. A strap runs over his shoulder and across his chest, holding a bulging leather bag secure at his hip, and under his arm, struggling and grimacing, is Sookie Stackhouse.

Pam was behind the bar a moment ago, but now she's by my side.

"Ah, Pamela!" the murderous lunatic says in greeting. "And, of course, little Annika – all healed up, I see? Hm. Must be this . . . fresh Shreveport air. Tell me again, dear – those readin' skills of yours . . ." He indicates Sookie. "They pick up absolutely _nothin'_ unusual about Miss Stackhouse?"


	29. Storm

"This is our gun. From the bar."

Pam lifts the little weapon over her shoulder as she says this, so Eric can have a better look from behind the bar. The gun almost looks  _smug_ to me, high in the air like that. I bite my lip, and Eric stops pacing – he's waiting for the microwave to heat something, I assume a bottle of Tru Blood – to eye the gun. Pam, meanwhile, raises her eyebrows at Sookie. "When did you get this? And why, for that matter?"

Sookie crosses her arms. She's sitting at a table with Bill, but his hands are bound by silver chains and hers are free. Which makes sense, of course – what can Sookie do? Run? Fight? "Oh, that? I got it from the  _eleven-year-old_ supposedly in your guys' care. She thought she had to stop me from leavin'. Apparently at all costs."

Pam and Eric both turn their attention to me long before Sookie finishes saying this. Me, sitting alone at my own table, where I planned to make myself invisible for as long as possible to avoid getting sent to my room.  _Thanks, Sookie._

I feel too guilty to actually be angry with her, though.

Eric's eyes say loud things. Not  _angry_ things, really. More like disbelieving things. And . . . okay, angry things. Which, for the record, I don't really understand.

But no one thinks this is something to discuss right now. Least of all, it seems, Russell Edgington. Russell Edgington, who murdered Eric's family. Russell Edgington, who wants to murder Eric. Russell Edgington, who has spent the past few minutes circling the rest of us like a lion circles prey he's not hungry enough to attack,  _yet_  – and this inside  _Eric's bar,_ Eric's  _home –_

_My home._

Russell Edgington. Who, having halted at Sookie's shoulder, now drawls to no one in particular, "That's all very frightening, and something must be done about the gun crisis in America, and I'll happily see to it, once I am in power. But  _that_ leads us back to the topic at hand, does it not? You know – that little thing you mentioned about  _fairies?_ "

That's right. Fairies. Because apparently they exist.

Edgington shifts a lovely crystal jar from his right hand to his left, as tender as a human might be with a baby. That jar – the thing that made his now tossed-aside leather bag so bulky – is filled to brim with something red. I couldn't figure out what it was at first. At first. It didn't take me long.

Once the jar is safely resituated, Edgington waves his newly freed hand at Sookie, but it's Eric he addresses. "You seriously expect me to believe  _she's_ fairy? A species extinct for millennia? If they ever existed at all? Don't you think I would have noticed if there were fairies bouncing around in the world?"

I hate to admit this, I do, but Edgington is sort of voicing my thoughts. Sookie, even with her face tight the way it is now, is pretty, like I would imagine a fairy to be, but . . . that's about all the fairylike qualities I can see. At least, fairylike qualities as I know them, from fairies I've seen in storybooks, and of course storybooks get things wrong all the time, but – Sookie has her hair in a ponytail, and she's wearing a tee shirt that says  _Bon Temps Softball,_ and she's  _a waitress from Louisiana._ I just can't make those details match up with the word  _fairy._

Hiding one's true feelings, though – that might be something fairies are good at. If that's the case, I might be able to believe, at least a little more, that Sookie's a fairy. Right now, she scoffs at Russell like he's merely some rude man she has to listen to for a while, like her kidnapping is just an inconvenience and she wishes things would hurry along. But it's an act. She knows she's in danger, and her heart – and, therefore, a piece of mine – is cold with fear.

"I didn't say she was full fairy." Eric trails his fingers along the bar as he makes his way around it, his steps neither slow nor rushed. I can't tell how real it is, this air of ease he has. This confidence. "She's a fairy-human hybrid. Which helped save her from detection."

The microwave beeps, as if crying for Eric to come back. Eric, with a glance, sends Pam to get whatever's ready and comes to Edgington's side. As Edgington squints at Sookie, Eric lowers his voice to the warm, easy whisper he uses to convince people to do what he wants. "She may very well be the last of her kind. Your only chance to walk in the sun."

What did Pam tell me about Sookie?  _Eric is giving Edgington another reason to want her. One that's even more compelling._

But . . . walking in the sun? I didn't know that was possible for any vampire, no matter what magic they had.

_You also didn't know fairies were real._

Edgington turns on his heel, snubbing Eric. "Yeah, yeah, yeah . . ." No –  _pretending_  to snub Eric. But I don't think he means it. I catch a glimpse of his eyes before he wanders off, and they're not the eyes of a bored man, of a disinterested man. They're thoughtful eyes.

"Drink her blood," Eric says to his back. "You'll see."

"Now, that's just nuts!" Sookie looks from Eric to Edgington to Bill, but no one agrees with her. No one so much as responds, not even Bill. But Bill hasn't said anything since Eric pulled him in here. He's been clenching his jaw and, I suppose, listening – that's it.

_I'm so sorry this is your life._

No, no. I shake Bill's voice out of my head.

Edgington gently rests his horrible jar on the bar. He slides his fingers along its side before returning to Eric, Sookie, and Bill. Pam, still by the microwave, eyes the jar with an absolutely blank expression. Sookie isn't the only one who's good at hiding how she really feels.

But, oh, Sookie is letting some emotion slip out now. She almost-yells, "Nothin' in my blood is a – supernatural  _sunscreen_  for y'all!" as Edgington takes the seat across from her. There's a bit of a tremble to her voice, but she's forceful, too, so the tremble is mostly smoothed out. "Why would you even think that?"

"Sookie, you're wrong," says Bill Compton. "What Eric says is true."

For a second, it seems like Bill's words have knocked Sookie's out of her. But then she finds one word, just one, and it's such a confused little word. "No . . ."

"I never told you." Bill is sorry, that's running through what he says like blood. But I still don't think Sookie understands what he's talking about (nor do I, really) – but, no, no, Sookie understands, she wouldn't have this dark, dizzying sensation I'm beginning to feel if she didn't understand. It's horror, but . . . it's more complicated than that. Betrayal. Yes, mainly that's it, it's betrayal, so – Sookie understands what Bill's saying. She just doesn't want to.

Pam places a black Fangtasia mug by Edgington's jar, and as Eric goes to retrieve it he says, "Bill's experienced it for himself," over his shoulder, to Edgington. He takes up the mug. It seems small in his hand.

"Oh, well that's reassuring." Edgington folds his fingers over his stomach, grinning at Bill. "A testimonial from the mendacious Mr. Compton!"

Eric carries the mug to Edgington . . . then past him. He sets the drink in front of me. It's chamomile tea, I can smell it, but this makes no sense, and I push my eyebrows together so Eric knows I'm confused. He smooths my hair.  _"I worry about you,"_ he murmurs in Swedish.  _"You need to relax."_

"A new beginning?" Sookie snaps at Bill, grabbing back my attention. "We'll  _start over?"_ She throws these words at him like rocks into windows, and I think . . . Well, amidst the spiraling betrayal feeling I'm getting from Sookie, there's a wave, a  _growing_ wave of simple pain. Heartbreak. And so I think those things –  _A new beginning, we'll start over_ – were things Sookie believed Bill wanted, maybe even promises he made to her. And now . . . now I guess Bill has crossed a line, a very important line. I'm not sure how or where, but it's happened.

Eric touches my shoulder, bringing me back to him. He nods at my tea, and I wrap my hands around the warm mug, lift it to my lips, and sip. Warm, yes, but not hot. It really should be hot. Obviously I don't say this, and Eric, apparently satisfied, returns to the others. Pam has come back to the little circle as well. She stands cross-armed over Sookie, almost like a bodyguard. Or, a prison guard. I suppose that's a more accurate comparison.

I sip more tea. Maybe it's okay that it's not hot. I like the taste of chamomile, and I can drink more in one gulp when the tea's not hot.

Bill leans forward, straining against the chains binding his hands behind him. He's not being aggressive, though, he's not trying to escape. He's trying to be  _heard._ Only not by Sookie, like I might have guessed. No, it's Edgington who Bill focuses on. "I can't force you to believe me. You'll have to see for yourself."

And that . . . that was off.

Not off because Bill loves Sookie too much to give her up. I truly don't know if that's true or not. No, what Bill said, it was off, it  _felt_ off the way lies feel off when I hear them. Like someone is trying to press a puzzle piece into me, but it won't fit. What Bill said couldn't really  _be_  a lie, not in any way I can think of, but . . . somehow, he wasn't genuine. Somehow, he's deceiving –  _trying_  to deceive – Edgington.

_But what about –_

Eric has taken the chair beside Edgington, and the second our eyes meet – his were already on me – he shakes his head, barely and just once. That's all I need, and I rest against the back of my chair and drink more tea, because things are okay. Eric knows what's going on with Bill, even if I don't. And really, that means this is probably a good thing, doesn't it? Whatever is happening, whatever's going on with Bill – Eric probably has a plan, and Bill is doing his part. They  _did_ come inside a couple minutes after Sookie and Edgington, and Edgington said that was because they'd gotten  _in a bit of a tussle_ in the parking lot, but maybe they just wanted him to think that. That would be very much like Eric.

Sookie's eyes are shining the way eyes only shine when they're about to overflow, so my kind-of-happy feelings about Bill and Eric possibly having a plan dissolve pretty quickly. "Why are you doin' this to me?" she says to Bill.

"We've tried fightin' him. We'll never win. If he develops a taste for your blood, he may let you live." Bill sounds earnest, and he looks sad, but he still  _feels_  off. Oh, yes, he's playing a part.

But Sookie, Sookie doesn't know that. And a tear slips down her cheek. "Bill,  _please . . ."_

Bill doesn't reply this time. He casts his eyes down.

Eric turns to Edgington, who has a small smile on his face. "So?"

Edgington pops an eyebrow. "I'm intrigued."

And Eric smiles, too. "Excellent."

"I hate you!" Sookie shouts suddenly, violently, at Bill Compton, absolutely  _flooding_ me with thick, awful emotions. She doesn't mean that, not totally, this flood is much more complex than hate, but I'm not sure Bill can see that. There's definitely a bit more truth to it, admittedly, when she turns and screams at Eric and Edgington, "I hate you  _all!"_ It's still complex, though, what I get from that scream. Still complex, and still awful.

But Eric and Edgington don't seem to notice Sookie. They're still doing business. "On one condition," Edgington is saying.

"Whatever you like."

Edgington jerks his head at Sookie and tells my guardian, "You go first."

And Eric, still smiling, says, "I'd love to."

. . . . .

I don't think much of it when, not too much time later, Eric says I need to go into the back. Really, I'm surprised he's allowed me to stay in the bar for as long as he has. I slide from my chair and reach for my empty mug, because I'm supposed to clean up after myself, but Eric gets it for me. He sets it on the bar as we leave the room. I don't look at Sookie on our way out. Eric and I, we leave her to her anger and her bad boyfriend – the one who pitied me – and to silent Pam and Edgington's taunting questions about if Sookie is hiding fairy wings or a wand.

None of this is fair to her. I hate this for her.

But Eric is more important than Sookie.

We walk to my room. No, we don't. We get close, but Eric stops outside his office instead. "Come, let's go in here."

This is strange, but not bad-strange. Fine-strange. Yes, perfectly fine-strange, and I walk inside the office and flop onto the couch, giggling at the way it bounces me. Then I see the pieces of phone cord lying on the floor by the desk and giggle some more. I point to them as Eric closes the door.

"Bill tied me up, but I got free by chewing through the cords. I knew I could, because Beowulf used to do that, remember?"

"I do." Eric lowers beside me. "In particular, I remember a certain little girl frantically searching the house for a cord that might work with my computer before I noticed the cord I  _had_ was mysteriously split in two."

I sit up, wrap my arms around his arm, and rest my head against him. "I didn't want you to be angry with Beowulf."

"I know."

"Or with me."

"I know." He strokes my hair.

_You had something to talk about, Annika. Didn't you?_

Yes. Of course. Of course, of course. I trace a seam along Eric's jacket. "Bill was . . ." I don't know the right word, though, I don't know the right word, it's not  _lying,_ but I don't know, I don't know . . .

Eric knows, though, naturally he knows. "Yes, you sensed that, didn't you? And from a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old vampire. One would almost think you're extremely gifted and powerful, wouldn't they?"

I giggle again,  _again,_  because he's told me that I'm gifted and powerful – or at least that I  _will_ be powerful – plenty of times in my life. Eric's joking, and I love it when Eric jokes.

"Gifted and powerful and beautiful and so, so smart," Eric says, and I smile, and smile, and then stop smiling.

_Something isn't right._

No . . . no. Something  _isn't_  right. Something isn't right, something isn't . . . Is it?

_Gifted and powerful and beautiful and so, so smart._

I pull back from Eric, first with just my head but then I pull back my arms, too, I pull them back from Eric's arm even though I don't want to, and I move my whole body back on the couch. My body – it feels  _light_ , like I have too much air inside of me, why do I feel like this? Eric frowns, and he should, because something isn't right.

_Why? What?_

_Gifted and powerful and beautiful and so, so smart._

Eric . . . Eric has called me all of those things, he has called me all of those things multiple times. But . . . but . . .

_Think – why can't you_ think?

. . . but never like that, never all at once, and never for no good reason, never just because, never when he's busy with serious things like Russell Edgington and real-life fairies and walking in the sun, busy with giving a woman I know he cares about to an evil vampire, no, no, Eric wouldn't just say  _all of those things_ out of nowhereat a time like this, so why . . . ?

_THINK!_

I touch my head. "I can't . . ."

"Annie?"

"Something's wrong."

"No, little one. Listen to me –"

"Yes, something's wrong, I feel like . . ." What do I feel like? It's a sensation I know, this . . .  _slowness,_ this fog, I know it, it's . . .  _It's like when I take a pill._  It's like,  _yes,_ it's just like when I take a pill, it's a fog, a cushion over my thoughts and feelings, just like when I take a pill, only stronger, and I haven't taken any pills today, have I? No. Eric asked if I wanted to this morning while I was looking at rabbits, floppy-eared rabbits like my Beowulf, and I said no and he didn't make me take one. Yes. That happened. No pills, not a one. All I've done for anxiety today is all of those natural things, like looking at Beowulf rabbits. The rabbits, and the healthy eating, and the exercise, and the chamomile,  _but no pills,_ and I had chamomile later, too, I had chamomile just  _minutes_ ago, and is this . . .?

_No, no, you little fool, chamomile doesn't cause fog like this, chamomile is natural, it's gentle, it's a natural, gentle anxiety-reliever, that's why Eric gave it to_   _you, but it doesn't cause fog like this, and Eric – ERIC GAVE YOU THE TEA._

"The tea . . ."

_ERIC GAVE YOU THE TEA._

Eric gave me the tea. He  _made_ the tea, him and Pam, and at such a strange time, too. They made me tea, chamomile tea, and it was too cool but that meant I could drink it in big gulps, and I did, because I like the taste of chamomile, and now there's fog. All this fog. Like the fog from a pill.

I get to my feet, I get to my feet as  _fury_  bubbles inside of me, but – damn it,  _damn it,_ the fury is so far away, only it  _isn't,_ it's  _here,_ it just  _feels_  far away, it feels like I can't even reach my own emotions because –

"You put a pill in my tea!"

"Annie, I need you to listen to me –" Eric's hand touches my hand and I pull away.

"You put a pill in my tea!"

"No, dear, I put two pills in your tea. And I will tell you why, just sit down and listen to . . . Sit down so we can talk."

"You . . ." I press both hands to my head. "I'm so . . .  _Ugh,_ I'm so  _slow!"_

I feel him tug at my shirt. "Come here."

"No." I try to shake him off, and I can't, but I try. "No – You gave me – Why would you give me – No, let me go, I'm  _mad_ at you!"

"I know you are, and I don't blame you." He's pulled me in front of him, close to him, his hands on my forearms which are by my head because that's where I threw them when I tried to get away. I shake them again now, except they don't move because Eric is holding them and Eric is stronger, so much stronger than me.

So  _slow . . ._

"I'm sorry, Annie, I know you don't like this. But I needed you to take the pills, and I knew you wouldn't want to. Not you, my strong, stubborn girl, who would rather suffer than relax if suffering means she might be helpful to me."

My hands are in his hands and on his knees now. They shouldn't be, I know that. They should still be in the air, or I should be across the room, whatever, but I shouldn't be like this, with my hands in his hands and on his knees. I'm too angry for that. Only the anger is  _so_ hard to feel, inside of me but somehow still far away, and I like it when Eric holds my hand.

"I don't understand," comes my little voice.

"Sweetheart. It's almost dawn. Edgington and I are going to drink from Sookie, and then we're going to walk in the sun, and I – I am going do something drastic. Something to defeat Edgington once and for all . . . It may make you feel a lot. Too much. I wanted to ease your burden as much as I could. I wanted to  _protect_  you as much as I could. That's why I gave you the pills. And that's why I brought you in here."

_Brought me in –? No, no. Go back more. Edgington, defeating Edgington. With something drastic._

"What are you going to do? In the sun?"

"Nothing I'm not willing to."

"Eric, what are you going to do? Why do you need to protect me, what are you protecting me from? What are you – what's . . .?"

Eric's eyes – I love Eric's eyes. I used to pretend they were mine, or, I suppose, that mine were his. I used to pretend that when I was little but not so little that I couldn't understand that children sometimes had their father's eyes, and I so, so wanted Eric to be my father, I wanted that more than anything. But his eyes hurt me now. They don't mean to, they don't do it viciously, it's the opposite – they're sharing. They hurt me because they hurt.

". . . Eric, please, what's going on?"

He takes my head in his hands, and I sort of jerk it away, but I don't want to fight, really, not even on principle, so my head stays in his hands and he brushes hair from my eyes and no, I don't fight. "Those times I took you outside to watch the storms approaching, and I told you to be brave . . . I never once thought I was  _making_ you brave. It's very important you understand that. You were born brave, Annika, it's a part of you. I was only trying to make you see it."

His eyes . . . Oh, Eric's eyes  _hurt._ Every other feeling is buried and muffled, but not that, not that pain, somehow, and I take a handful of his shirt and say, "Don't leave me."

Eric pulls me into him. Wraps me up. I wrap him up, too, and sigh into his neck, so relieved, because everything is okay now. I love him and everything is okay.

Eric pulls my arms from his neck and separates us.

"No." I grab his shirt again. "No, don't leave me. Please."

He kisses my forehead.  _"Be a good girl,"_ he says in Swedish.  _"And be brave."_

"No –  _no –"_

His shirt is gone and he's on his feet and he's walking to the door –

" _Eric!"_

– and then he's through the door, Eric is through the door and it's closed behind him and it's wrong because  _I'm still in here,_ and I hear the latch slide into place, and I almost go to the door just to try it, just to twist the knob and push and pull and maybe bang the wood and scream, but instead I curl up on the couch in the place where Eric was. I dig my hands into my hair and get small, so small.

I hurt. I'm afraid, and I hurt, and I don't know why, no, I don't know why, but I know it could be worse, I know it  _would_ be worse if Eric hadn't given me that tea, I know because I can peer into myself like someone looking over the edge of a cliff into the roaring sea far, far below, and I can see all the monsters from here and I'm grateful not to be close enough for them to touch me.

But when I'm done peering into myself like someone looking over the edge of a cliff, I look forward instead, and I see a storm coming.

 


	30. Gone

_It won't stop._

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no . . ."

I don't know what I'm talking to, but I know it's horrible, and I know it won't listen to me, no, it won't stop. It's doing something to Eric, something bad, something I can't picture, something I can't help.

". . . no, no, no, no, no . . ."

My elbows press harder into my knees as I curl into the couch, the bottom part of the couch, because I slipped to the floor at some point, of course, the floor is where I go when I'm sad, yes? My hands, I press my hands into my head, squeezing and squeezing, and it won't stop, and I've been here before –

–  _no, this is worse –_

– and it won't stop.

". . . no, no, no . . ."

_It's an ending, you know. Eric is ending. Slowly. Slowly, slowly, Eric is ending slowly, Eric is suffering, feel it? Feel it?_

I feel it like the sting of a scraped knee after it's been treated, after some nice, cooling medicine is put on it –

_– by Eric –_

– but you can still feel the sting, not so much, but you can feel it. I feel that. I feel it all over me. From Eric. And I feel it sinking deeper into my skin, this sting, deeper and deeper.

_Slowly, slowly, Eric is ending slowly –_

". . . no, no,  _no!"_

I tear at it, at the sting, but really I just claw at my chest. But that burns enough that I don't have to feel the sting so much, and what's more, what's more, I don't have to feel the other thing. The hole. The gaping, screaming hole in my gut, the hole, the hole that's simple, pure despair.

So I claw and claw, and claw harder, and say  _no,_ and wish for Eric, and maybe wish I were dead, although that last part is very far off and vague. Better to say, more accurate to say I wish I were  _gone._

I feel it less, the stinging. I feel it less, it's pulling back, because of the clawing, so I use both hands to claw now. Maybe I'll dig all the way into my chest and tear out my heart and whatever else feels things in me,  _all these things,_ all the time –

Wait, wait.

I stop clawing.

Yes. Yes, the stinging – it stays like it is. Less, I mean, less than what it was, and it's . . . it's  _pulling back._ Pulling back, pulling out of me, bit by bit. I don't move, I just feel it, feel it leaving. Creeping away, like roots being drawn back into a tree.

And something covers the hole. Just like that, like putting a lid on a jar. I press my hand to my chest – it's wet, that's strange – but not to claw anymore, just to hold in the relief, just to keep the relief from pouring out of me. It's my relief, it's mine, it's my own feeling, and without the pills, it might have been too much, but with the pills, with the pills, it's the most wonderful thing I've ever felt, and –

_He's safe._

The storm has passed.

My hand slips to my shirt and to the floor and my head falls against my legs. I sigh, long and crookedly. Everything is okay now. Somehow. And I might cry, I think my eyes are trying, but – no. I think I'll just rest.

"Annika."

My head is slow to come up, but my thoughts rush around – they  _try_ to rush, at least, but they keep bumping into each other and none of them really get anywhere. But they know that voice, I know that voice, and I know I shouldn't be hearing it now.

Godric stands over me. He's glowing, a little. He did that the last time I saw him, too. He's dressed in white, also like the last time I saw him. But he was on the edge of my bed the last time I saw him. I was asleep the last time I saw him. It was a  _dream_ the last time I saw him.

Oh, of course. "I'm asleep."

"I once told you that, someday, Eric might need you to fight for him," says Godric. I've never heard his voice like that, have I? Tense. He doesn't feel my relief, poor man. Ghost. Poor ghost, or dream, or vision. "That day has come."

"No . . . You're wrong. Forgive me, I mean, but . . . Eric's safe, Godric, I feel it." I tap my chest, where the relief is, and sort-of scold myself for talking to this Godric as if he's real.

Not-real Godric, he says, "Eric is making a mistake. He is choosing vengeance over mercy, and it will only lead to suffering. You can give him time to realize this, time to choose a different path. You're my last hope, child, please. Stand. You must use your gifts."

I float to my feet. "What are you . . . No."  _No, Annika, no, you're being silly._  I press my hand to my forehead. "You're a dream."

"Annika, listen to me." Godric moves closer, though he's still out of arm's reach, I think. I consider trying to touch him, but that would be rude. "You have telekinetic ability. You've seen it."

"Telekin . . . With the magister? That was one time."  _And how does Godric even know about that . . .?_

_Because he isn't Godric. He's in your head. You're dreaming. Maybe this has all been a bad dream. Right down to Edgington . . ._

"You reached that part of you once," Godric says. "You can reach it again."

Something prickles inside of me. Far off, of course, but it's there, it just . . .  _prickles._ "No. I can't."

Godric, he seems to sigh, but I'm not sure ghosts or dreams can sigh. His shoulders drop, I can say that much. "Are you certain?"

"Yes." And although I could explain further – maybe remind Godric that my abilities haven't fully manifested, that I can't just  _will_ them to manifest or to work or whatever, exactly, they need to do for me to be as powerful as everyone wants me to be – frankly, I don't want to explain anything to Godric. I want to . . . I want to either sleep –

_– if it's a dream, you're already sleeping –_

– or see Eric. Yes, see Eric. Not talk to his dead maker, who, no matter who he is, has no business telling me how to control  _my_ powers, certainly not in this moment, this moment that should be happy and peaceful, just happy and peaceful.

"I can't do it," I say, to make sure Godric gets it. "I can't use my – I can't use telekinesis. But Eric's  _fine_ , Godric. Really."

"He's not, little one. And I am sorry to do this, but I see no other way to help him."

_Sorry to do this . . . Sorry to do . . .?_

Godric's arm stretches towards my head, and it stretches quickly but I still see it coming, and I just . . . I just watch it.

"Try to relax. I will be as careful as I can."

I understand, just before his hand arrives, that I don't want Godric to touch me. But it's too late. I don't feel his fingertips brush my forehead, or his palm press into my skin. What I feel is a lovely, overwhelming warmth in my skull and then in every inch of my body. Then nothing. Nothing at all.

I'm gone.


	31. Power

Gone.

But not totally.

I come back. Just for flashes.

I come back to watch my hand press against the office door and to feel something – something like happiness, but if happiness were physical instead of emotional, something – something  _strong_ swell in my forehead, and I  _feel_ the latch on the other side, first only its shape, and then, then I feel it  _move_ , and then I fall back into  _gone,_ a dark, lovely place . . .

. . . and I come back when my body is in the bar and my legs are taking long, certain strides towards the door, and although somewhere to my left Pam, then Eric, calls my name, my head doesn't turn, and another surge of strength, strength like lightning, blazes through me and out of me and the door flies open, letting in daylight, and . . .

. . . I come back to see my feet beside a crumbling pile of ash in a man's nice white shirt, although piles of ash do not normally speak or grin, and this one does both as it lies on the shining asphalt beneath the bright, warm sun. ". . . watch the mean man fry?" says Russell Edgington, pieces of his lips falling off as he does so. And I feel the – the – the  _power_ build in me again, build and build, and now,  _whoosh,_ out it goes, and Russell Edgington screams as he slides across the parking lot and right through the open door and into the club . . .

. . . and I come back one more time, once again in the bar, but this time it's different. This time, when I look down at Edgington's scorched form, I'm looking because I want to. Because  _my_  brain decides to move  _my_  body and my body, quite happily, obeys. I look at my legs, too, and see them trembling like they've never made a long, certain stride in their existence and never plan to. A red drop splatters on the white toe of my Converse shoe, and when someone grabs my arm and I hear myself mutter that terrible phrase  _I didn't mean to,_ blood runs into my mouth. Not the good kind, either. Just mine. Mine is nowhere near as tasty as Eric's, or as strong. As powerful.

My legs give out. I fall, and fall, and fall, and I feel it coming again, or I feel  _me_ coming towards  _it_ , that dark, lovely place, I'm closing in, closing in, and I'm here.


	32. Won't Be A Problem Anymore

The thing that used to be Russell Edgington moans in agony as Eric, his hands covered by blue plastic gloves, pulls the silver chain tighter around our prisoner's neck.

"You're a fool not to kill him." Bill Compton is a few paces off from Eric, watching him bind Edgington to a dancer's pole with a frown and folded arms.

"Killing him won't solve anything." Eric tugs the chain again, drawing a scraping noise from the pole and a choking noise from Edgington.  _Good,_ I think.  _Good, you bastard._

"No." Sookie steps closer to Eric. Her ponytail is falling down, and she has to swipe some strands out of her eyes. "But it would keep him from killing  _us_."

"Oh, he won't be doing anymore killing," says Eric.

I'm on the outside of this scene, as I usually am. I usually mind, though, and I don't this time. Everyone is standing but me – me and Edgington, whom Eric pushed down onto the pole's mini-stage. I'm in a chair at my own private table, my legs pulled into my chest, my arms holding them close. I haven't said anything in some time. I haven't wanted to. I still don't.

_I didn't mean to,_ I swore to Eric, again, when I woke up. It was the first thing I said, once he'd pulled his wrist (and his blood) away from my lips, because it was important he understood that, understood that my bringing in Edgington was  _not_ my choice. But then, of course, he asked what I meant by that, by  _I didn't mean to,_ because how could I  _not_ have meant to? And I said Godric's name before I could think my way out of doing so. That's it, just his name. And Eric's eyes got wide, but he didn't press further, because he had to secure Edgington. We'll talk about it later, though. Of course we will.

Secure Edgington . . .  _secure_ him, not kill him. Not toss him back into the sunlight to fry. Eric wasn't angry with me, I don't think he was angry with me even before I stuttered on about not being to blame. He'd already decided to bring Edgington in, that quickly became clear. I just –  _Godric_ just beat him to it. Probably because Eric was weak. Weak, because he had been burned, too. He hadn't completely healed yet when I came to in his arms. There were black patches on his face.

He'd been out there with Edgington. That's the only explanation for those black patches, for what I was feeling in his office. Sookie's blood, fairy or not, is clearly not a  _supernatural sunscreen._ At least not a particularly effective one.

"Eric, who the fuck are you right now?" Pam is closer to me than the others. She's standing right by my table, and I'm grateful for that, whether or not it's intentional on her part. I could reach out and hold her hand if I wanted to – except, no, I couldn't. Her hand is forming a fist. Fists aren't for holding. "He killed your family!" she half-shouts at her maker. "Rip off his fucking head!"

Pam's face is streaked with red. Because of the Bleeds, you know. But . . . I don't think that's just it. I think she's been crying. She was here when Eric did it, after all. When he went outside. She was here, and she knew what was happening. She must have  _let_  it happen, to some extent, which she only would have done on Eric's orders, never willingly. Nor would I. But yes, if ordered, Pam would let it happen, and she must have done just that, and I . . . I don't know if that would have been possible for me. I don't know what I would have done when Eric went outside, how I possibly could have intervened, but I might have tried to.

_Of course you would have. You wouldn't have been able to stop yourself. So Eric stopped you before you even knew what was happening._

Eric's blood has chased the pills from my system. Or maybe Godric did that. It doesn't matter – either way, my brain is back to working, working well enough for me to piece things together like this: When I sensed Bill being not-genuine with Edgington earlier, it was about Sookie's blood, the fairy blood he and Eric said would let a vampire walk in the sunlight. I think Bill and Eric both knew it wouldn't work. I think Eric knew that Edgington would demand he drink Sookie's blood, too, drink it and walk in the sun to prove it could be done. So Eric sneaked me the pills.

_I wanted to ease your burden as much as I could. I wanted to_ protect  _you as much as I could._

Sneaked me the pills and locked me away. Which was wrong of him.

_Except that he was right and you know it. You would have begged him not to go outside, fought him every step, and the plan would have fallen apart the moment Edgington looked your way._

Eric managed to get back inside the club. I don't know how, unless Sookie – the only human besides me – brought him back in.  _Dragged_ him back in, she's too small to have carried him . . . unless she used magic. Some kind of fairy magic. But now, now I might be going too far.

_Is there such a thing as too far, really? Now that there are fairies? And ghosts that can take over your body?_

How Sookie brought Eric in isn't the question, though. The question is  _why_ she brought him in _,_ after what he did to her . . .

_Eric_ didn't  _do anything to her, though. Well – he imprisoned her and kidnapped her, fine, but that was part of the trap, wasn't it?_

Yes, I think so. But Eric's blood has only done so much for me. It got rid of all the medicine in my body – or close to all of it – but, evidently, there wasn't enough magic left over to chase out the tiredness. So, working or not, my brain isn't currently at full strength.

Also, being possessed by a dead vampire may take something out of a person. I don't know.

Because Eric is chaining him by his neck, Edgington has his hands free, and he uses one now to pat Eric on the elbow. "Do not listen to them," he purrs, tilting his head – what's left of it – towards me, but I know he means Pam, Pam and Sookie and Bill, because I, again, have said nothing. "I shall reward you  _handsomely_  . . ."

Eric punches Edgington in the gut. The former king – and something tells me he is, definitely, a  _former_ king – loses his breath and makes a deep, gagging sort of noise before coughing out a puff of ash. And something else. Something tiny and pale. He catches it in his black hand, and Eric leans closer to see.

"Well," my guardian says. "That's humiliating."

It's a fang. Russell Edgington is losing his fangs.

_Nan Flanagan will be so pleased._

Eric might be thinking the same thing, because he plucks the fang from Edgington's hand. "I'll take that . . . Sookie, come and hold these chains together. As tight as you can."

Sookie does as he says, although her mouth is set in one thin line. She's stiff as Eric points to where she should hold, as she places her hands there. She's doing her best not to touch him, Eric. At least that's what it looks like from here.

Just as Sookie gets a grip, Edgington whips his head towards her, snarling, but it's not an especially frightening snarl. It's a desperate, thoughtless snarl, a greedy snarl. Sookie wrinkles her nose at Edgington's destroyed face as Eric slips a lock through the chain. "Don't even think about it, bitch," she says.

My lips twitch. On one side, at least. It's an odd thing to feel right now.

"Are you kiddin' me?" Edgington breathes. "It's all I'll think about . . . ever again."

The fairy blood. It doesn't let vampires walk in the sun, but . . . that glimmer in Edgington's eyes – the last two alive-looking spots on his body – must mean the blood is still special. Still desirable.

Eric closes the lock with a  _snap._  "We should go to ground." His eyes flicker to Sookie. "You stay here and watch him."

"I'm not babysitting this psycho while you guys take a nap!"

"He can't glamour you. Ginger's coming in later, and he would glamour her in a heartbeat."

Sookie glances at me, and I see the thought almost reach her lips:  _Annika can't be glamoured. Let her watch him._ Or, you know, something like that. But Sookie, she stops herself. She pulls her eyes from mine, and, a moment later, her shame reaches me, rolling in like thick smoke.

She shouldn't feel ashamed, though. I held her at gunpoint. If I'm old enough to do that, if I'm  _capable_ of doing that, then surely I can watch over one chained, scorched vampire.

But Sookie doesn't say this. Not any part of it.

The plastic gloves make mad little popping noises as Eric strips them off. "Pam, make one of the guest coffins available for Mr. Compton."

_Mr. Compton._ Does Eric refer so formally to Bill out of respect? Or to put distance between them?

_Maybe it's for no reason at all, Annika, and you just need to stop your exhausted mind from working so much._

"I'm staying out here with Sookie," says Bill. Sookie moves over to him, and Edgington watches her go with what I think is a longing expression. It's hard to tell for sure.

"Bill, you have the Bleeds," Sookie says, and it's true. There's a smudge of blood below Bill's ear to prove it.

But Bill only says, "I'm not leaving you alone with  _him."_

"Well, I really don't wanna look at your face right now. Or  _any_  of your faces, for that matter." Sookie surveys the vampires. Her shame is gone. It's been pushed out by something louder, faster. "Go crawl back into your holes, you creepy, cold freaks."

Sookie has had a very bad morning.

Bill grimaces, and I can't feel him like I feel Sookie, but I think he might have his share of shame, too. He told Edgington to feed from Sookie,  _encouraged_  it, and yes,  _yes,_ it was for the sake of the plan, for the sake of  _defeating_ Edgington, but . . . I can still see Sookie's face, the way it was in my vision, as she struggled under the hands of Edgington . . . and Eric. Her twisted and terrified face. Sookie might need some time before she can forgive Bill for the part he played in that happening to her, no matter how good his reasons. That's not me sensing anything, that's just . . . that's just something that would make sense to me, is all.

Anyway, Bill Compton steps back from Sookie, and Pam – after giving me a once-over – leads him into the back.

Eric comes to me, phone to his ear. I didn't notice him taking it out. "It's Eric Northman." He hooks my arm, gently, and eases me to my feet. "I'm going to need your van, and your help. Tonight." He hangs up, too soon to have heard a response. Maybe he left a voicemail. Or maybe the person simply isn't someone who can refuse him. Eric touches my head, even as he uses his phone to point at Sookie, then at Edgington. "Do  _not_ stake him."

Sookie pops her eyebrows, promising nothing. Eric must feel safe enough, though, because he rests his hand on my shoulder and, for the second time this morning, leads me into the back. This time, though, we actually make it to my room.

. . . . .

The conversation is brief.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Annika, you dragged a man across a parking lot with your mind. We have to talk about it."

"Not now. Please. You have the Bleeds, and I . . . Please, just – not now."

"Annie . . . What's wrong?"

"Please don't make me talk about it now."

"Alright. Shh . . . Alright. Tell me just one thing, and the rest we'll leave for later. Why did you say Godric's name?"

"I saw him. I saw him, and he took me over, okay? He didn't ask, and he – he made me do what I did. It wasn't me, I . . . I had no control, and I think – I think he used my abilities, but I had  _no control_ , he –"

"Okay. Breathe, dear, you're okay."

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes."

". . . Why?"

"We'll leave it for later . . . Go change now. Brush your teeth. I'll tuck you in."

"Will you . . . um . . ."

"I'll stay with you until you're asleep."

. . . . .

I sleep better than I have in days. Maybe weeks. I shouldn't, not with Russell Edgington under our roof, but . . . he's not Russell Edgington anymore. Not really.

I wake a little before sunset, which is normal. I shower, rolling my neck around, flexing my hands as the warm water runs over them and trickles off the tips of my fingers. My bones, my muscles – they're like shelves just dusted for the first time in ages.

_And they're mine._ I watch as I wiggle my toes.  _It's my body, it's mine, I'm in control again. Just me._

When I step back into my room, it occurs to me that it feels like mine again, too. I didn't notice if it did last night, but . . . it does now. And I close my eyes and feel that for a moment.

_It's just me. Just me in here, in my room. I'm in control. I'm safe._

And it's over. Everything with Edgington. It's really over.

. . . . .

In the storage room, I pile a plate with a jam-smeared bagel, yogurt, and fruit, because my body seems to have remembered that it's supposed to be hungry regularly and wants to make up for doing such a poor job as of late. I intend to eat in my room, but as I walk down the hall, my gut stirs in the way that means  _A human is here._ And I almost label that as  _Sookie_ and put it away, but the stirring insists, and I realize it's not  _just_ Sookie, Ginger's here, too – oh, Ginger, the stirring she causes is really more like a floating-and-flopping sensation, like a kite that keeps catching the wind, losing it, and catching it again – but morethan that, there's another human in the club. A third human. Well – fourth, counting me.

But . . . it's a human with a tweak.

Oddly enough, even though I'm fully aware that Edgington – not just Sookie and whoever else – is on the other side of the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, I don't hesitate before pushing through it and into the bar. Edgington doesn't frighten me anymore. Edgington has  _lost_.

He's the first thing I see, though, still chained to the dancer's pole, still basically a lump of well-dressed charred meat with eyes. And teeth. I see those when he sees me, because he grins. Or grimaces, maybe. At any rate, I look him over and then away, turning my attention to the other side of the room. Sookie sits at the bar, a beer in front of her. Beside her, also with a beer, is a very big, very muscular man, dressed in jeans and plaid and sporting shaggy hair and a beard. He notices me before Sookie does and stops mid-sentence to straighten and – what's the word? –  _appraise_ me. No, appraise the situation, because he's surprised by me, I can see it. And feel it, a heartbeat later. Surprise just feels like a rush of heat . . . With him, it's hotter than usual. That can be attributed to the same thing that makes him feel  _tweaked._ The thing I can't identify.

Sookie follows his eyes to me. "Oh. Hey, Annika." She smiles. That smile – it's weak, even strained, but it's rooted in something genuine. Sookie still actually likes me. I don't understand that, she  _shouldn't,_ but . . . it's true, I swear. And I think that should make me happy, but mostly it makes me feel guilty. "I don't know if you've met Alcide. He works for Eric, sometimes. And he's a friend of mine."

"Hey, there." Alcide sounds casual, but his eyes slide to Sookie's, asking questions. "Uh, Annika, is it?"

"Most humans call me  _Annie_ ," I answer. "I don't care which name you use." I walk forward – I don't see how I could do anything else without seeming rude – and set my plate on the table closest to the bar. "Is your last name  _Herveaux_?"

"You heard of me?"

"Once or twice."  _I saw your name in Eric's file cabinet. Congratulations, you're an asset._

Oh, the file cabinet. I wonder if Eric still intends to address that. There are  _so_ many things we have to address, aren't there? They've piled up like laundry we keep meaning to fold.

I stand at the table, not quite comfortable with the idea of sitting, since I've interrupted Sookie and Alcide's conversation. That said – I live here, and they don't. I break off a piece of bagel. "You're who Eric called?" I ask Alcide. "The person with the van?"

"That's me."

I take a polite little bite, studying him. That tweak, it's not a  _bad_ tweak. Nor is it an unfamiliar tweak, but I can't place it. Something about him, though,  _is_  abnormal, there's no doubt about that. He's human, but different. Like Sookie, I guess. Maybe he has a splash of fairy blood, too. Although it's even harder to think of fairies wearing muddy workboots, like this man is, than to think of fairies waiting tables at a small-town Louisiana bar.

"You, uh, you live here?" Alcide waves a hand, and I'm mid-nod when I notice something interesting a couple of seats past him. On top of the bar is a beautiful crystal jar, its lid off, lying upside down beside it. A beautiful, clean,  _empty_ crystal jar.

"What happened to  _that_?" I ask Sookie.

She looks over at the jar, then back at me, a sort of defiance coursing through her and across her face. She looks like she did when she told me she killed Bill's maker. "I poured the goop it was holdin' into the sink and turned on the garbage disposal."

An awful croak comes from behind us.  _"Goop?_ It wasn't enough, doing what you did to him? Don't you  _dare_ call him . . . _GOOP!"_

The term  _goop_ sounds rather ridiculous no matter who says it, but hearing it in Russell Edgington's voice? That's absolutely comical. This, combined with the fact that – as he snarls at Sookie, pulling against the chain with what I suppose is all his (greatly reduced) might – he sends some of his burnt skin scattering on the floor just makes the old royal seem utterly pathetic. I think back to the first time I saw him, only days ago – God, it feels longer – as he walked down the stairs in his majestic mansion, his all-but  _castle,_ wearing a bathrobe but nonetheless looking regal. And shining with power, on  _fire_ with power.

An ironic way to think of it now, I suppose.

"Well done," I tell Sookie. Not quietly. "I only wish I could have been here. I wasn't particularly fond of . . . Oh, what was it? Taylor? Tobias?"

_"Talbot,_ you demonic little goblin." Edgington strains away from the pole, facing me as much as he can. "Not that you are worthy of saying his name."

"I don't need to say his name. I prefer  _goop._ "

I think I hear Alcide snort.

"You should really be nicer to her," Sookie says to Edgington in a tone that's a bit too sweet to be real. "She saved your life, after all."

"Indeed." Edgington directs this at me, though, not Sookie. " _Oh, I sometimes have visions, your Majesty,_ " he says in a high-pitched, silly voice. _"Unclear flashes of events. I can sense how people feel, sort of, kind of, on occasion, but really, sir, that's it, I do so swear it . . ._ Lying little brat."

I almost tell him that everything I said was the truth, but I think better of it. Sookie and Alcide are here, after all, and they don't need to know how strong or weak my abilities are (Alcide shouldn't know about them at all, come to think of it, but it's too late to avoid that). And anyway, what's the harm in letting Edgington think I deceived him, letting him think I'm more powerful than he ever guessed?

Edgington leans back. "I admit, though," he says through those crumbling lips, "I am intrigued. The collector in me can't help it. Were my current situation a bit less . . . inhibiting, I might even be tempted to claim you as my own."

_Claim you as my own._ As if it were that simple. And maybe, maybe it would have been, once, but it's so very hard to imagine now, looking at this creature who's barely still shaped like a man.

"Naturally, however, I would come to my senses before taking that particular plunge," Edgington says. "I may have an impulsive streak, but I am not foolish. And you, little Annika, would be a  _most_  foolish acquisition. Already  _were,_ I suppose, just not one of mine, thank the stars . . . Wonder if Eric's figured it out yet?"

"Annika," Sookie says. "Maybe you shouldn't –"

"Figured what out?" I ask Edgington.

"Why . . . That you're doomed, my dear." Edgington shows his teeth again, and this time, I'm certain he's grinning. "A ticking timebomb. Most psychics are, to one extent or another, but the most powerful ones . . . Oh, they never last long. The flame that burns brightest, and all that . . .  _Madness,_ you see, is simply part of the package."

I keep my eyes on him, blinking regularly, slowly – calmly. One benefit of constantly being subjected to other people's feelings is that you learn to keep a sort of mask on, so they don't catch any hint that you know anything about them you shouldn't. It's a good skill to have. It's prepared me for moments like this, when I have a chill that's also somehow hot creeping from the center of my spine up to my neck, making all the little hairs it passes stand on end.

"The first psychic I had was a disappointment," Edgington continues, "an aura reader whose skills never developed past the level of party trick _._ I found him as a human and never even bothered to turn him. Oh, but my secondpsychic . . ." He gives a little shake of the head. "She was  _marvelous_. Already a vampire when I met her, but a young one, who'd lost her maker. I took her under my wing, and she served me faithfully for decades. She could touch someone – human or otherwise, just  _touch_  them – and tell you everything about them. Every little thing . . . But, of course, it didn't last. She started slipping, and I saw it happening, but I just couldn't bear to admit it to myself. Then one night I found her in a church in Portugal, crouched over a priest, picking his brain . . . literally. She told me she was searching for God."

"That's enough," I hear Alcide say. Neither Edgington nor I pay him any mind.

"I had no choice, then. Of course I had to kill her. It was the responsible thing to do. Like putting down a mad dog. I did it quickly, though. She didn't see it coming . . . I'm sure your master will extend you the same courtesy once you spiral into an abyss of insanity from which there is no return, as is your inevitable fate."

I slide my hand into my pocket.

"And given how early it is for your powers to be reaching such heights," Edgington says as I near him, "I would say that fate is not far off at all. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't make it to twenty-five before you start screaming at shadows and ghosts and voices that only you can hear, but I'm sure Eric will have turned you by then, so at least you'll get a good – what? Five, six, seven years of immortality, before your dear, precious Eric tears off your head and –  _Ah! AHHH!"_

He loses his train of thought, I think, as one is apt to do when one is a vampire and one is being sprayed with colloidal silver. I push as hard as I can on the nozzle of Pam's little gift, watching Edgington smoke and squirm and proclaim things in German –  _naturally_ it's German – and oh, how I wish I had two bottles. How I wish I had a  _fire hose_ , a fire hose with an unlimited supply of this magical, magical spray, and an unlimited amount of time to use it on this bastard, this fallen king, this absolute  _asshole_ Russell fucking Edgington.

When I finally stop, purely because my practical side reluctantly recognizes I shouldn't waste all the water, Edgington gives a long growl. One underlined with a distinct, beautiful whining note. "I . . . will skin you alive . . . and  _wear you as a scarf!_ "

"No,you won't, your  _Majesty._ I'm quite sure our relationship has reached its end." I lower my voice to a whisper. "Just like  _Talbot."_

Edgington roars at me, but between the chains and the spray – and the baking-in-the-sun thing – he's too weak for it to be a particularly intimidating roar. And with my final line floating between us – and I won't lie, I'm pretty proud of it – I turn on my heel, flipping my hair as I do. And I stop.

Eric, Pam, and Bill have emerged from the back. Eric is watching me with mild interest, hands in his pockets.

I toy with the spray bottle. "He . . . made me angry."

"Oh, no need to explain," Eric says, almost cheerfully, and a smile slides onto my lips.

I return to my breakfast – though I still don't sit – as Eric turns his attention to Alcide. "Your truck out front?"

Alcide clears his throat. "Uh, yep."

"Good." Eric gets plastic blue gloves from behind the bar and begins unwinding the chains from around Edgington's neck. Pam comes to stand by my table, smirking at me with a pleasant glint in her blue eyes. Past her, Bill Compton floats around the barstools, but doesn't sit in one. He and Sookie look at one another and look away. A tight, almost cramped, feeling passes from Sookie to me, and I swallow some yogurt, hoping to smother that feeling away.

"Let's go," Bill eventually says, impatiently, and in the same moment Eric moves away from the dancer's pole. He has a grip on the chain, and in two steps, it's taut; in three steps, Edgington is in a heap on the floor. Screaming.

I eat a blueberry.

Eric drags Edgington to my table. "I won't be long," he tells me, and as he does, Bill and Sookie come together – I'm not sure who comes to who – and whisper back and forth . . . not in a comfortable manner. And then Eric says, "We'll talk later," and I meet his eyes, and they settle into me like rocks in a riverbed. He's not warning me, like he would were I in trouble, but he's not making a request, either. And I don't protest. Even with the Bleeds, Eric would gladly have stayed up all day to listen to what I could tell him, I'm sure of that. But instead, he let me go to bed this morning without my explanation – my in-depth explanation, at least – of what happened. But now I've rested, and, considering the event in question involved both my powers and his maker, Eric won't allow the conversation he's after to be delayed for another minute longer than necessary.

And maybe that's for the best. Like I mentioned earlier, we've been putting off so many things, so many conversations. Difficult or not, addressing at least one of those things – and maybe we can address more, maybe the opportunity will present itself – may actually be a relief.

I jerk my head at Edgington. "What are you going to do with him?"

Eric readjusts his hold on the chain, gazing down at the murderer of his family, the greatest enemy I imagine he's ever had. "Oh, don't worry, dear. He won't be a problem for us anymore."

Edgington makes a  _Hmph!_ sound. It's scornful, almost disapproving, and Eric's response is merely a smile, which is how I know he's certain of his plan. And that's comforting, sure, but – it's obvious that Eric isn't just going to kill Edgington, and although I don't know what he's chosen as an alternative, I doubt it's anything as permanent as the True Death. And I would prefer something as permanent as possible.

But Eric says Edgington won't be a problem anymore. And no matter what's happened recently, with stuff like this – stuff like our lives – I trust Eric.

Eric starts to say something else, but he's interrupted by Sookie, who's halfway to the door. "By the way – I rescind the invitation to my house for  _all_  vampires present." She glares at Bill. "So don't even think about followin' me home."

Bill's face is stone. He can't see Alcide, a couple of meters behind him, which is good for Alcide – or maybe for Bill, I don't know. Alcide is strange, remember, and maybe if Bill attacked him, he could hold his own . . . My point is, when Sookie makes this announcement, Alcide smiles in a soft, private way. And I feel a wave of his affection for her.

Sookie starts to turn, but jerks to a halt. "Annika, I don't know when we'll be seein' each other again, so I want you to know that I don't blame you for anything, and you'll be in my thoughts."

She leaves, each stride purposeful, head held high.

Eric gives me a dry look. "Ever the charmer, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, such a delight," mutters Edgington. His hands are folded on his stomach. He's actually twiddling his thumbs. If you dropped him in a field, he could pass for a stargazer. A horribly deformed stargazer.

Eric tugs the chain. "Get up."

"I do not take orders from  _anybody_."

Eric shrugs. "Suit yourself." And he continues on his way, pulling Edgington to the door like a gasping, cursing sack of garbage. "If you two have finished eye-fucking each other," Eric says as he passes the bar, and therefore Bill and Alcide, "Can we go?"

Whatever moment Eric caught between Bill and Alcide, I missed it. But the term  _eye-fucking_ doesn't leave me with a lot of questions. Alcide stands, and Bill moves to follow Eric. But as he does so – and maybe unintentionally – his eyes catch on mine, and it's like he plants a seed, the seed of an emotion that grows ridiculously quickly and reaches full bloom before Bill even turns his back on me.

Unease. Unexplainable, unquestionable unease.

I have the sense to wait a few moments before speaking up. It might seem strange to Bill, otherwise, right? Right. Maybe.

"Eric," Pam says, though I'm only half-aware of it. "Do not bring that  _thing_ back inside this bar."

Eric looks over his shoulder, popping his eyebrows in acknowledgement as he reaches the door Sookie just blew through. Before he can open it, I lick my lips and say,  _"Be careful. Very careful. You still can't trust him."_

I speak in Swedish, of course, using what I hope is a casual voice, and doing so over Edgington's moans. Those are probably to my benefit, actually – there's a great chance Edgington knows every language I can name, so the less of that he heard, the better.

The glance Eric gives me is entirely disinterested, but Eric – it's undeniable – is a master of deception. "Fine," is all he says, before pushing open the door and leading the strange little group into the night. But that satisfies me. Somewhat.

Russell Edgington slides along after Eric, out of the club, out of my life.

Bill Compton glances at Pam and me, but that's it, then he's gone. Alcide, on the other hand, meets my eyes and says, "Nice meetin' you, Annie."

"You as well."

He gives Pam a quick duck of his head and follows the others outside.

"What was that about?" Pam asks as soon as the door shuts. "What you said to Eric?"

"I got a bad feeling from Bill. Nothing specific, but . . . I wanted to let Eric know."

"Bill would stake Eric in the blink of an eye if he could," Pam mutters. It's the most blatant acknowledgement of Bill's dislike – well, hatred – of my guardian I've ever heard from Pam or Eric, and I don't like hearing it, even if Pam's tone is more annoyed than concerned. After a second, though, she adds, "But he can't. Even if by some miracle he got the upper hand over Eric in a fight, Eric's his sheriff. And that means something again, now that Eric's giving the Authority what they want."

"He isn't, though. He's not killing Edgington."

"The Authority won't know that."

"I don't suppose you'll tell me what he  _is_  doing with him?"

"Nope. That's on Eric's orders, though, so if you wanna be pissed about it, be pissed at him . . . But you shouldn't be. You're better off not knowing, that's why he's keeping it from you."

I think about that. Then I say, "Pam. How often do psychics go mad?"


	33. Conversations and an Empty Space

****

**. . . . .**  

 **I.**  

 

 

 

"I should have known," I mutter. "I should have  _seen_ it."

Eric takes one hand from the steering wheel and lets that arm drop onto the console like an exhausted man. "Annika, I am not taking you to eat so you can bask in self-loathing all night," he says, managing to sound exasperated and patient at the same time.

_No,_ I think as strangers' headlights play on Eric's face, changing the shadows by the second, _you're taking me to eat to bribe me._

But that isn't fair. Eric takes me to diners all the time – well, regularly enough – with no ulterior motive. None that I notice, anyway. Also, that hypothetical bribe would be for the purpose of getting me to talk about what happened this morning with Godric's . . . ghost? I don't know. The point is, Eric doesn't need to bribe me to get me to talk about that, he can just tell me to . . . Following that logic, he doesn't need to bribe me for anything. He's Eric. So if not  _bribe_  . . .  _Put me at ease,_ then. Yes – Eric might be taking me to eat to  _put me at ease_  so I'm more likely to talk freely. Only, being at ease is a lot to ask of me at the moment. Thanks to Bill Compton.

Who I'll never have to force myself to hate again.

Eric and Bill and Alcide, they took Edgington somewhere to bury him in concrete. Soft concrete, obviously – and is  _bury_  the right word? It's not important – what's important is that  _that's_  how Eric planned to deal with Edgington, and that an hour or two after he and the others set out, Pam and I both felt something. Different somethings, of course. My something was an out-of-nowhere-panic, an alarm bell ringing in my head with no explanation as to why it was doing so; Pam's something was . . . well, I can't say for sure how it felt, but it's called  _being summoned._ It's something a maker can do with his progeny. Something Eric can do with Pam.

Pam didn't tell me she got this feeling until later, because she left the instant she felt it. Which is why the vampire Bill sent to kill her attacked in the parking lot, not in the bar. This means I wasn't around for it, but Ginger happened to be taking out the trash when the fight occurred, and she told me afterwards – inside the safety of the club, once she'd stopped screaming – that Pam had used the vampire's own stake on him and disappeared.

When Pam came back, she was coated in drying cement. Eric arrived in the same state not too long after, having made a detour to Sookie's, and – possibly because he realized this incident would be very difficult for him to brush off with a  _Don't worry about it_  – he actually gave me some details about what had happened. More, I think, than was probably his instinct, and I appreciated that. Well, I appreciate it now. In the moment, I was rather distracted.

Eric told me how he put Edgington, still alive, in a pit under cement – although he didn't tell me where – and explained that he and Bill were left alone once Alcide's part of things was finished. As a truck piled the cement over Edgington, Bill distracted Eric, distracted him long enough to push him into the pit, too. To try and bury  _Eric_ , too.

And then Bill sent that vampire – who, by the way, was Eric's  _own assassin_  – to kill Pam (Eric didn't tell me it was his assassin, but he had a quick conversation with Pam about it, and I overheard, and then I decided not to think about that too much, so I'll stop now), because – Eric thinks – Bill wanted to kill, or bury forever, every vampire who knows Sookie has fairy blood. To protect her.

I didn't ask, and Eric didn't say, if Bill told the vampire to kill me, too.

_I'm so sorry this is your life._

Yeah, right.

I suppose Eric went to Bon Temps to tell Sookie what had happened, but he also – and I quote –  _offered her some interesting details relating to the character of Mr. Compton._ Eric specified no further than that, but when I asked if he had killed Bill, and then why he hadn't, he told me, "Bill has lost Sookie. It's far better to let him live so he can suffer through that than to end his misery just as it's beginning." So . . . those  _interesting details_  must have been quite telling.

Oh, and upon hearing what Eric said here – about letting Bill live, I mean – it occurred to me that he probably used the same line of reasoning in deciding what to do with Russell Edgington, since he also just lost someone he loved and probably still has a lot of suffering to do over it. I didn't try to find out if I was correct, though, because I didn't want to push Eric too much. When he's generous with information, it's better not to ask too many questions. Doing that can close him off.

All of this, from my sudden panic to Eric's explanation, happened before midnight. And just  _after_  midnight, Eric suggested taking me for waffles. This,  _hours_ after Bill Compton tried to kill him.  _Hours_ after he got revenge on the man he's hated for a thousand years.

Hence why I'm suspicious of his motives.

But, again . . .  _that's not fair_. Eric isn't one to dwell, I know that. It isn't that he forgets about the past, good or bad, he just doesn't let it interfere with the present. He does what he thinks he needs to do next, regardless of his feelings about things that have already happened, things he can't change.

It's very practical. It's something I hope I learn to do. And I think when I'm a vampire, it'll be easier.

"Did you hear me?" Eric asks.

I'm not a vampire yet, though.

"I'm not  _basking_ in self-loathing," I say. Lie. For better or worse. "I just should have seen what Bill was going to do."

"You sensed he had nefarious intentions, and you warned me. It's my fault for letting my guard down. Now, enough of this. I don't want to hear you berate yourself anymore."

I huff out a breath.

"No disgruntled sighs, either, please."

I glare at him. He glances at me and, I think, chuckles under his breath.

**. . . . .**

**II.**

Our booth is by a window – as are most of the red-and-white, plastic-looking booths in this red-and-white, plastic-looking diner – and I watch traffic. Which means I watch one car pass by, then I watch another car pass by. This is why Eric got into the habit of taking me to diners. They're open when most humans are asleep and the world is private.

"I need to know more about what happened this morning," Eric says, in a sort of careful manner. That doesn't stop my heart from jumping. "You told me Godric appeared to you and . . . took you over."

I reach for my glass of water. I ordered, but only a few minutes ago. Considering this place is all but abandoned – it's only us, a few waitresses, whoever's in the kitchen, and a group of teenagers or barely-not teenagers reading textbooks on the other side of the place – I imagine I'll get my food soon, but I'm impatient anyway. Having a plate in front of you gives you something to do besides talk to the person you're with. Usually, of course, I love talking to Eric. But for discussions like the one we're about to have, it's nice to have an excuse to stretch out the time I get to think of what to say. Food is better than water for that purpose, but I make due. It's tap, unfortunately. The iciness burns my throat.

I put down the glass, wrapping both hands around it. "Yes."

Eric waits for me to continue. I don't.

I didn't say stretching out the time I get to think always works particularly well.

"I need to know more, Annie."

I spin the glass by its base, inch after inch, causing the ice to shift around and the water to tremble. "Sometimes you call me  _Annie_ just because you know I like it, don't you? Just to get me to do what you want?"

"I call you  _Annie_ because it is a familiar version of your name. And yes, because I know you like it. That doesn't mean I'm trying to manipulate you . . . Do you want me to stop calling you that?"

I shake my head at the water and ice.

"Good. Now that that's settled, please tell me what happened this morning. In full."

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"I already told you I believe you. Although the fact that you seem to doubt my belief makes me wonder if I should be doubting it, too. Is that the case?"

_"No,_ it's just – It's . . ." I push the glass away. "It's absurd. What happened. It  _did_ happen, I  _did_ see Godric, he . . . It happened, it happened like I told you. But it's absurd."

"Lots of things that happen are absurd."

I try to study his expression, but he's looking at me, and it's hard to study someone's expression thoroughly if they're looking at you, because they notice and therefore might change.

It isn't like Eric to believe this sort of thing. A thing with no evidence. Well, he has what I'm telling him, I suppose that's evidence, and it isn't as if it would be more like him to accuse me of lying. Generally speaking, he trusts my word, because I've so rarely given him reason not to. But in this case, I'm telling him I saw his  _dead maker._ And I was drugged at the time. Eric should be bringing that up, as well as that I was upset and probably not thinking clearly, and that I could have passed out, and even that I could have been hallucinating . . . He should be bringing up  _every_ possibility besides my truly seeing Godric, because my truly seeing Godric is  _not_ practical. And Eric is.

But he isn't bringing up every possibility. He's saying he believes me. What's more, I  _believe_  he believes me. I just have no idea why he does.

"You've always told me ghosts aren't real," I say.

"We don't know that what you saw was a  _ghost_ , per se."

"What else could it have been?"

"There are things in this world even I don't understand, little one."

"Okay, but you don't have to understand it, exactly, to know that I saw someone who's – gone. He's gone, but he was right in front of me, talking to me, and isn't that the definition of  _ghost_? It is.  _Ghost_ or . . .  _insanity_."

"You are not insane."

That's an instinctive reaction, though. Just like it was with Pam, when I tried to get her to talk to me about it earlier tonight. About psychics going mad.

. . . . .

_"You're not going_ mad _, Annika."_

_"I didn't say I was going mad. I asked how often_ psychics _go mad, in general."_

_"Yes, solely out of curiosity, with no intentions whatsoever of applying that knowledge to yourself. Or maybe you're asking for a friend?"_

_"What knowledge?"_

_"_ Ugh _– there_ is  _no knowledge. I don't know why you're thinking about the mental stability of the psychic community, but for God's sake, we just got rid of Edgington. Take a damn breather. And finish your breakfast. I can smell it rotting._

. . . . .

That was all she gave me. And I learned nothing more watching her than I did by listening. She sounded annoyed, and she looked annoyed. Then she turned away.

Eric doesn't look annoyed. If anything, he has a patronizing . . . no, an  _indulgent_  air. It's the same air he often had when I was little enough to be frightened by things it was silly to be frightened by – dark rooms and imaginary monsters and storms – but not so little that I didn't  _know_ it was silly, know I shouldn't be afraid. Eric would tell me as much, but still comfort me, still turn on lights and check behind doors. Indulging me.

It was kind of him then. And maybe it's kind of him now, but it's  _different_  now, because I  _don't_  know I shouldn't be afraid.

"Godric was the one who put that idea in your head in the first place, yes?" Eric is saying. "About your abilities affecting your mental state? You're thinking of him, so you're thinking of that. Don't."

_Yes, Eric, Godric put that idea in my head, but Edgington also seemed to think it was worth noting. So perhaps this is something we should discuss a bit. Why don't we, hm?_

_Because I don't want to. Not really. Because it terrifies me._

_We have to discuss it, though. I have to understand._

But now, now I'm thinking about Godric telling me that – that people with powers like mine are more  _susceptible_  to madness – and I'm thinking about  _when_ he told me that, and . . . I close my eyes, because I haven't told Eric this part, and I think I should, but I don't think he'll like it. "That was . . . That was after he died, too."

"What was?"

I peek at him, then look at my hands, then out at the empty road. "When Godric told me that psychics sometimes go mad. He did that the night you came back from Dallas. Or, the next day. I was in bed, I woke up, and he was there, and . . . that was the first time I saw him. After, I mean."

"The  _first_  time?" And yes, Eric's voice has an edge to it now. I predicted he wouldn't be happy with this information, but the edge still hurts. "Exactly how many times have you seen him, Annika?"

"Just twice, and I thought the first time was a dream, I thought it had to be. But when I saw him this morning, he – he talked about that first time, and this morning was definitely real, so that first time must have been real, too."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because  _I thought it was a dream!_  And that's exactly what you would have said it was, too! You know it is!"

I'm close to using a tone I'm not supposed to use with Eric, and, accordingly, his gaze darkens . . . but clears up just as quickly. "We're not alone here, Annika," he says. Calmly. "Keep your voice down."

He shouldn't have to tell me that. I fold my hands on the table. After a deep breath, I say, in a tone to match his, "Am I wrong?"

"No. Probably not."

I sigh the deep breath out, but that's all I know to do.

"I am not scolding you," Eric says. "I didn't mean to sound as if I was. This is just no little thing, and I want all the information I can get. That's all."

My folded hands aren't really folded anymore. I've started wringing them, like I always will, sooner or later.

"Annie. Please relax, dear. We're just having a conversation. Edgington is out of our lives, and you are getting waffles. You should be elated."

I keep wringing my hands, wringing them and watching them. Eric, meanwhile, watches  _me_. I can feel it, though I don't know if I feel it like a psychic or like someone who spends a lot of time with him.

"What you described to me this morning," he says before long, "about what Godric, or some form of Godric, did to you . . . It sounded like you were describing a possession. Do you know what that is?"

I nod.

"Do you think that's what happened?"

I nod again.

And in his gentlest voice – the voice I've only ever heard him use with me, my absolute favorite voice – Eric says, "Then I imagine it was quite horrible for you."

I squeeze my hands together with everything I have, squeeze until my fingers turn white.  _Yes it was, Eric, oh, it was . . ._ "I know how much Godric meant to you," I say to my white fingers. "I don't want to speak ill of him. Of course he was doing what he thought was best."

"Not one of those sentences was about you. And you are what I am most interested in at the moment."

"I said  _I_  didn't  _want_  to speak ill of him. I think that was about me, technically."

"Sweetheart, don't forget, I can feel what you're feeling."

"Then – why do you want me to talk about it? You know how I feel, I – I shouldn't have to talk about it."

"You  _don't_  have to. But you can. That's all I'm trying to tell you."

**. . . . .**

**III.**

Once I've pushed all the tiny plastic boxes of jams and butter from the edge of my plate, I take the syrup bottle from the head of the table and start pouring the stuff over my waffles – my cooked-to-the-perfect-shade-of-brown waffles, already topped with a glob of butter and a twirl of whipped cream. I soon stop, though, even though I don't have as much syrup as I want, because Eric doesn't like me eating a lot of sugar. Holding the bottle upright over my plate, I slide my eyes to my guardian, who, after a second, throws his hand up in a little wave, a  _Do what you will_ kind of wave. I grin, flip the bottle, and let syrup wash over my waffles until they're absolutely flooded.

I take my first bite – Oh, these waffles are  _good_ waffles – while Eric sorts through the little boxes I knocked from my plate. "The abilities used to pull Edgington inside, and to open the front door. As well as the door to my office." He slides two of the jams to his side of the table, the ones with little strawberries on their lids. "Regardless of who used them, they were  _your_  abilities?" He gazes out the window like a distracted student – a  _normal_ student, like I've seen in movies, one who does lessons beside windows in classrooms.

_He's trying to convince me we're not talking about anything important, that this is nothing to worry over._

No, surely not. Eric knows I'd never believe that. But he  _is,_ maybe,trying to convince the part of my brain I don't really control – my  _subconscious_  – that what he's saying is trivial. And I guess that would be manipulation, which I don't really like, but if he  _is_ doing that, it's only to try and keep from upsetting me while he finds out what he needs to know, so . . . it's a nice sort of manipulation. If that's possible.

"Yes," I say. "They were my abilities."

Eric pops his arm out to check his watch and rubs something from its face. "You're certain?"

I tap my fork against the edge of the plate. "Yes . . ."

_I'm in control. I'm safe. Eric's here._

_Just say what happened._

"He tried to get me to do it on my own first. Godric. He tried to get me to get myself out of your office and bring Edgington inside myself. Just myself. He said . . . you were making a mistake, and I could give you time to change your mind about it."  _What was the mistake? Eric trying to kill Edgington? Why would Godric think that was a mistake?_  "But I told him I couldn't do it. Because I  _can't_ , I can't will myself into using abilities that haven't manifested. Even if I've used them a little, accidentally, like I did with the telekinesis. With the magister . . . Anyway, that's when he – Godric – did what he did, and . . . It was his power, but they were my abilities. Or, ability, he just used the telekinesis, I guess. I wasn't awake –  _conscious_ , might be a better word – I wasn't conscious for most of the time that he . . .  _possessed_  me, but I came back each time he used the telekinesis, and it was like . . . like I had a machine inside of me, but I didn't have electricity for it. And Godric brought electricity.  _Was_ electricity." I clear my throat and instantly regret doing so, because it was forced and sounded like it. "If that makes sense," I mutter, then I stuff my mouth with a bite of waffle and focus on its sweetness, wiggling my toes as I do, just to prove to myself I can.

_I'm in control. I'm safe. Eric's here._

"Hm," Eric says. And that's all he says.

I chew, watching him watch the street. I can't sense anything from him. He's thinking things over – his eyes are making tiny movements, the way they do when he's really thinking – but no, he's giving off nothing I can read.

But I shouldn't be trying to read him, anyway – and I'm not  _trying_ to,really, sometimes I just start without realizing it. Nonetheless, I drop my eyes to my waffles.

**. . . . .**

**IV.**

"Your chest was torn to shreds when you brought Edgington inside," Eric says about halfway through my meal.

_My fingernails were bloody, too,_ I think, but I don't see anything to gain from adding that.

"You did that in Dallas as well. Though on that occasion I was there to stop you. You told me then it was because you were sensing my . . . distress, at Godric being in the custody of the Fellowship. That it was too much for you to feel." He pauses, working his jaw. "Was this morning worse?"

I press my fork into a piece of waffle until it's squished and split into parts.

Answer enough for Eric, apparently. "Did the pills help at all?"

"Yes," I say, softer than I meant to. "But . . . the pills . . . They make what I feel seem farther away. They turn my emotions into echoes of themselves. It's the same with the emotions I sense.  _All the things_  I sense . . . But I still sense them, I still  _feel_  them, and if they're intense enough . . . It's still going to be bad."

"And harming yourself helps this?"

"I don't mean to do it, it's not something I think about. Or it hasn't been, either time, this morning or in Dallas. I was just . . . In both of those moments, I was feeling so much. Too much, like I told you. And I can't really focus on anything else when it gets like that, and I guess –"  _Clawing_ sounds too dramatic – "scratching myself like that –"

"These weren't scratches, Annika, they were gashes."

_Clawing it is, then._ "I guess it helps. I guess it . . . alleviates things. At least somewhat."

"The pills are supposed to do that."

"They  _do_ , Eric, like I said, but – but you were outside  _burning in the sun_ , and the pills aren't enough to keep me from feeling that." I grab my water. "Nothing could have been enough to keep me from feeling that."

I take a long, long drink. I empty my glass, in fact, and set it at the edge of the table, though I haven't seen a waitress since ours brought me my food. I imagine they're not too on their toes this time of night.

After a minute, Eric speaks again. "I handled the situation the best way I knew how, Annika. It was going to be traumatizing for you no matter what. I tried to reduce the trauma as much as possible."

"I know."

"And what else could I have done?" His voice is heating up. "Had I told you to take the pills, you would've been frightened. Had I not locked you in my office, you would've been scarred by what you saw. Especially if I hadn't survived."

"I  _know_ , Eric."

He starts to say more, but he shuts his mouth – tight, I think – and goes still, as if he heard a signal I didn't. A couple of moments come and go, Eric begins to tap his fingers on the table, and then he drops his hand flat and looks out the window again. "It doesn't matter anymore. It's behind us, all of it."

**. . . . .**

**V.**

_It's behind us?_

But . . . that simply isn't true. I want it to be, and, yes, it  _mostly_ is, but not completely, and we shouldn't pretend. "There's still Bill Compton," I say.

"Bill is not a threat."

I stop eating so I can put all of my energy into the look I give Eric.

And Eric, when he notices, dips his head towards me. "Okay," he says in a tone meant for reaching compromises, "Bill is more of a threat than I may have initially realized."

I pop my eyebrows and return to my waffles.

"However, now that I know just how happy he would be to remove me from the equation, I will never again give him the opportunity to do so. Anyway . . . Just because I didn't deal with him tonight doesn't mean I never will."

"I hope you do."

"Oh, come now. What sort of thing is that for a little girl to say?"

I roll my eyes, which makes his lips twitch. I cut out a new bite of waffle. "You want to make Sookie yours, right?"

"She has proved very useful."

_And you've made out with her at least once._ That doesn't necessarily mean anything, of course. People can make out with people, people can have  _sex_ with people, without so much as liking one another. And vampires have an even easier time with that sort of behavior than humans do.

But Eric likes Sookie. I have no doubt about that. So the making out thing  _might_ mean something. Which is weird to think about, because I've never seen Eric act with anyone the way Bill Compton acts – used to act – with Sookie. I can't even  _imagine_ it . . . Nor will I try to, not right now.

"Wouldn't it be easier to make Sookie yours if Bill were gone?" I ask. "I mean, I know you told me she broke up with him, but . . . still."  _She really loved him,_ I nearly say, even though I'm not sure how I know that, or even exactly what it means,  _love,_ when you're talking about two adults. I've never felt that love, and I've never really seen it. Not up close, not for more than a minute or two.

"Sookie won't be forgiving Bill anytime soon. Not after hearing the things I told her about him." Eric's being cryptic again, speaking in a quiet, distant way, a way that means he's thinking of topics not meant for conversations with me. And, like I mentioned earlier – pressing him for information isn't smart.

So, I ask, "Will she forgive you anytime soon?" because maybe that, at least, is something I can know.

And yet, instead of answering, Eric shifts in his seat – he has no reason to, vampires don't fidget like humans – and scans the empty restaurant, scans and scans, until his eyes land on my plate. "Do all humans eat so slowly? Or is it just you? I so rarely watch any others."

I sigh. But I don't press. "Do I need to eat quickly?"

"No, dear. Take your time."

**. . . . .**

**VI.**

"You're not being fair."

One of Eric's eyebrows goes high. "I'm not being fair?"

My hands are already in fists on either side of my plate, but I clench them a little harder. Which means I clench them as hard as can. "No. You're not thinking about this from my perspective."

"I don't have to."

"Yvetta went down to the basement and unchained Sookie, and Pam was busy with Bill Compton, and I couldn't just –  _let_  Sookie escape!"

"And so you grab the nearest deadly weapon?"

"I was careful!"

Eric clenches his jaw – only for a moment, but I see it. "Child, lower your voice."

And I bite my lip, because of his jaw, because of  _child._ That word isn't as menacing as  _girl,_ in terms of things Eric calls me, but it isn't all that far away. And also, I was wrong – I wasn't clenching my fists as hard as I could before.

Conversations like this aren't supposed to happen when Eric takes me to diners. When he takes me to diners, he's supposed to be my friend.

Eric taps – jabs – the table with his index finger. He's wearing one of his necklaces, and as he moves, its pendant – an eagle talon – falls out of his shirt. I've always liked this necklace, and I stare at it as Eric says, "You have no idea how to  _use_  that thing, Annika. Do you know how many people – how many  _children_ – are killed,  _accidentally,_ because someone who had no business with a gun decided to pick one up?"

"I couldn't just do nothing." I watch the talon swing. "Your life depended on Sookie, and you weren't there, and I didn't –"  _I didn't know what else to do._ But that's the same reason I gave Sookie, even as I pointed the stupid gun at her, and I don't want to say those words again, I don't want to bring the moment back like that, so I just repeat – because it's true – "I couldn't just  _do nothing,_ " and dig my fists into the table.

"Annika – don't.  _Don't,_ sweetheart . . ."

I twist my head towards the window but then farther, as far around as I can, and swipe at my eyes.

"Annie." Every drop of venom has drained from Eric's voice. "You . . . You are not in trouble. You could have hurt yourself, and that frightens me, and if I spoke harshly, that's why. Not because I blame you – how could I blame you? We've never discussed this." He leans forward and covers my fist with his hand. "Dear, I had no intention of upsetting you. I'm very tired of seeing you upset."

"I'm not upset," I say, and the words are taut, like ropes about to break. "I'm angry. That's all." I know I should move my hand – and it  _is_  a hand now, not a fist – away from him, but I don't. Because what I just said wasn't totally truthful. And he knows it.

Don't forget. He can feel what I'm feeling.

Eric strokes my hand with his thumb, back and forth. "Annika, I know you were trying to help me. And don't think I don't appreciate the sentiment. But remember what we talked about after the bombing in Dallas. In dangerous situations, chaotic situations, if you find yourself alone, you are to see to your own safety. That is how you help me."

I sniff. But my throat has stopped trying to close, so maybe a sniff is at bad as it's going to get. I've turned my head straight again, too – well, straight and down.

"You have no need for guns," Eric says. "I'm going to order a safe for the one in the bar, but even if I didn't, you would never touch it again. Would you?"

I shake my head.

"Good girl. Then that's the end of it . . . And I promise, Annie, after I've turned you, I will give up once and for all on stifling your warrior instinct. You'll finally get to prove just how vicious you really are. And oh, how my enemies will run in fear."

That makes me smile, a little, and I meet Eric's eyes, and he smiles a little, too. "There you are." He pats my hand. Then he sits up straight again, settling his arm in front of him. "Now finish your waffles. We want to make sure you leave here with cavities in  _all_ of your teeth."

**. . . . .**

**VII.**

Later, when Eric and I are crossing the parking lot of the diner, a cold breeze playing with my hair as if pleased to see me, I say, "I want to talk about the things I saw in your file cabinet," and hold my breath.

I don't get an answer, not for four steps, which is when I check Eric's face. I find out nothing from doing so, but the closest streetlight is on the other side of the parking lot and the almost-but-not-quite-full moon is to our backs, so the dark could be hiding things from me.

"I planned on forgetting about the file cabinet for a couple of weeks," Eric finally says.

We reach the car. Eric opens the passenger side door for me, and I get in, but I keep my feet over the side of the seat and my toes on the asphalt. "I broke your rules," I say. "You have every right to punish me, I know that, I accept that, and if I have any say, I would rather it happen sooner than later, but mostly, Eric, I – I have a lot of questions. I saw papers, papers that said different things, contradicting things, things about  _me_. And I . . . I just have questions."

Eric props his hand on top of the car, leaning down so I can still see him. This gives him a sort of looming effect. "You only have questions because you invaded my privacy. I don't see why I should reward such behavior. In fact, leaving your questions unanswered and letting you wonder about these papers you saw may be the most effective way of teaching you a lesson. Put your feet inside the car and buckle up."

I draw my feet inside, though my muscles have turned to metal. Rusted metal. Eric slams my door – or maybe he closes it normally, I can't tell for sure, but it feels like a slam. I use my stiff fingers to snap my seatbelt into place and then press them against my lips. This last hour was a good hour, and I should have left it alone and  _let_ it be a good hour, but no, no, no, I had to ruin it.

The driver's door opens and I hear Eric slide behind the wheel, keys jangling. I don't move as he wakes the Corvette, which rumbles in a ready-for-anything way, and drives us out of the parking lot. The little red-and-white diner shrinks behind us.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. I get no response.

Not for several minutes, anyway. But then, as I'm trying to get lost in the blurring lights outside, I hear, "Ask me your questions."

I twist around. ". . . About your files?"

"Yes." Eric keeps his eyes ahead. "I'm taking your DVD player for two weeks, by the way. But go on, ask what you want to ask."

My thoughts scatter like spooked animals. I never planned this far ahead, did I? Where to start? "Um . . . There was something called an adoption decree. That's where I saw the name  _Annika Pamela Klein._ It said you adopted me – or, her – on my birthday in 2004. And another document said I gained U.S. Citizenship in 2004, but then  _another_  document – a report of a birth abroad – said I was born in Växjö. Born a U.S. citizen, but . . . in Växjö. Obviously, those documents can't all be accurate, and as far as I know, I was never named Annika Pamela Klein, and that report of a birth abroad – it doesn't list my mother's name under  _Parents,_ but . . . it lists you as my father. My birth certificate is the same way, in the Swedish version and the English version. That . . . also, obviously, isn't accurate, so . . . It's just a lot of conflicting information, and . . . I don't know which parts are true. So . . . which parts are true?"

Eric rests his right arm on the console, like he did on the way here, but it's not so relaxed this time. He rubs his fingers together as if fighting for a grip on something invisible and slippery. "Your date of birth, of course. And your birthplace, you were born in Växjö . . . But the documents themselves are all fabricated. Vital records — papers issued by the government to record major life events — are demanded often in human affairs. Generally, when I'm asked to present yours, I can simply glamour someone and move on. Occasionally, however, I do have to produce an actual document, and in anticipation of this, I had some made shortly after your birth. Just the birth certificate and the consular report at first. When I brought you to Shreveport, I had the others made as well, so, if backed into a corner, I could claim I'd adopted you."

Cars hurtle towards and past us like comets, and I don't look at any individual one, so I could almost believe that they're comets. That Eric and I are traveling somewhere far, far away from earth, far away from all things familiar to me. "The birth certificate isn't even real."

"No. Annika, you must keep in mind, the circumstances under which I acquired you were very unusual. Trying to abide by the legal system in spite of that would have only served to put us at risk. And had you been given a birth certificate, it wouldn't have said my name – at least not  _only_  my name – and the only way to get a legitimate birth certificate that  _did_ would have been to actually, legally adopt you, which was not a viable option. Adoption is a tedious process. There are hearings, background checks . . . various dissections of one's daily and private life. I had to protect myself. This was before the Great Revelation, remember."

"I'm not a Swedish citizen."

"Dear one, neither am I. It's meaningless. I wouldn't be an American citizen if it didn't make business easier. You should look at this as a good thing. There are countless people who would love to be so off-the-grid as you."

Is it a good thing? Being so off-the-grid? I honestly don't know, I don't know what to think about that, or  _how_ to think about that, or  _what_  or  _how_  to think about any of this, maybe because I'm finding it difficult to stop _I'm not a Swedish citizen_ from repeating in my head. That . . . that matters, I think. Well, I  _know_ , I know it matters to me. I'm not sure why, and I'm not sure it should. But it does.

"This isn't a big deal, Annika. Nothing has changed for you."

"I was, um – I was really born in Växjö?" As if that's important . . . but, in all honesty, it is. If that and my birthday are the only real things from all of those documents, they're very important indeed.

"Yes, you were."

"Not in a hospital, though, right? Don't they have to give babies birth certificates if they're born in hospitals?"

"I rented a flat there after making the deal with your mother and – the vampire she belonged to. I didn't want you to be born at the farm, I thought it better if your mother didn't know its location. You were delivered in the flat by a very well-paid midwife with an equally well-paid doctor standing by. Unnecessarily, as it happened. You were in perfect health. Small, of course – but surely that doesn't surprise you?" Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eric's head turn my way. He's checking me. He wants a smile. He doesn't get one. It doesn't come naturally, and I won't force it, because that's not how smiles are supposed to be, remember?

"Were you there?" I ask.

A pause. "No."

I wrap the fingers of my right hand around the wrist of my left and tighten, tighten, tighten too much. I hear something pop.

"I was already sheriff here, I had a business to run, and you were born three weeks earlier than expected. I came a few days later to see you properly settled in at the farm."

"Who was I with, then? Those first few days?"

"Your wet nurse, mainly."

"I don't know what that is."

"A woman hired to breastfeed a baby."

"Gross."

"Oh, please. You've been in America too long."

"I agree," I say, and plunge back into my questions before he can say anything back to that, because  _this_  conversation is too big to share time with an entirely different, if also very important, one. "Why didn't you just have my mother feed me?"

"That can be a bonding experience. It was best for all parties involved if bonding was avoided."

He leaves out  _who_  decided that was best. And that makes a difference, who decided, because Eric deciding means something very different from my mother deciding, and I open my mouth to find out which is the case but what comes out is, "What was her name?" because the answer to that couldn't possibly mean so much as the answer to the other thing, and also because I want to know, I very much want to know her name.

"Annika, why does it matter?"

"It matters where you come from. I know you believe that."

My words settle around us, making the silence that follows weigh more than it should.

"Elisabeth Maier."

"Not Klein."

"No. I picked Klein at random."

"And added  _Pamela_ as a joke."

"It wouldn't call it a joke." But Eric doesn't say what he would call it.

"Do you know my father's name?"

"Matthias Keller, according to Miss Maier. I was never able to locate someone matching the name and description she gave, but I have no reason not to believe her."

"You told me once he was a doctor."

"Yes. According to Miss Maier."

"And they broke up before she knew she was pregnant."

"He was gone, yes."

Why am I picturing that photograph in Sookie's living room, the one of her parents on their wedding day? I don't want to picture that, not at all, so I push it out of my head. "How old was she? My – Elisabeth Maier?"

"Twenty-four."

"Did you like her?"

"I didn't know her well enough to like her, or not to like her. She was a means to an end."

"Was she pretty?"

"Of course. She was also intelligent, which I hope matters at least as much to you."

"What did she do? Did she have a job?"

"She had many. But mainly she worked as a singer."

"A singer?"

"Mm-hmm. She was talented. I imagine she could have become quite successful, had she been able to get her life together."

"How was her life not together?"

". . . Some people simply don't function the way they should, Annika."

"What do you mean? How did she not function?"

"Never mind."

"Please tell me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I know you. You will internalize every negative thing you hear about this woman. I won't allow you to subject yourself to that."

" _This woman_ was my mother."

" _This woman_ sold you! You shouldn't care about her at all, she didn't c–" Eric stops.

I sink in my seat.

We pull into Fangtasia not long after that. Eric parks around back, as usual, and when he turns off the car's engine the world goes still and quiet.

Neither of us move.

"She was not a bad person, Annika," Eric says. "And the fact of the matter is, she was not eager to make the deal. But she had a massive amount of debt, I made her a lucrative offer . . . and she knew she was unfit to raise a child. I have a history with the vampire she belonged to, and he assured her I would take excellent care of you. She believed him. She believed that you would have a better life with me."

There's graffiti on the employee entrance.  _BURN IN HELL,_ it says. The club is covered with similarly uncreative things –  _BLOODSUCKER, GOD HATES FANGS,_ nothing I haven't heard or seen before – all stained on the bricks in bright, happy colors. I saw it for the first time, the graffiti, when Eric and I left for the diner. He told me it was a reaction to Edgington killing the newsman, told me I shouldn't worry about it, that it wouldn't happen again, that people would soon forget about the incident altogether. And I don't understand that. I don't understand how people just forget.

**. . . . .**

**VIII.**

I sense Eric's hand coming before it lands on my head and sweeps back my hair. "Annie?"

"Was she crazy? Is that what you mean by she didn't function?"

He pulls back. "No."

"I know mental illness can be genetic, and Godric and Edgington  _both_  told me –"

"Edgington –?"

"– that psychics go mad, Eric, Edgington said the powerful ones  _always_  do –"

"You spoke to  _Edgington_  about this?"

" _Yes_ , earlier this evening, before you walked in on me spraying him with silver – that's  _why_ I was spraying him with silver. He was saying . . . bad things."

"And you think he's a trustworthy source?"

_"_ He brought it up on his own! Psychics going mad –  _he_ brought that up! I didn't mention it! And I asked Pam – after you left with him – I asked Pam how often it happens, and she avoided the question. She didn't just not answer it, she  _avoided_  it, I can tell the difference, so, just – Eric, please,  _please,_ do psychics go mad a lot?"

"No."

"I can handle it if they do, just tell me the truth,  _please_  –"

"I  _am_ telling you the truth. Annika . . ." Eric's head falls against the headrest, and he closes his eyes. After a moment – a long moment – he looks at me again. "I really don't lie to you all that often."

His eyes are sad.

Eric takes my shoulder and pulls until I'm entirely turned in my seat, my whole upper body facing him. He slides his hand closer to my head and rests his thumb against my cheek. He wouldn't have made me look at him like this if he wasn't going to tell me something, but I have to wait for what feels like a long time, and it isn't easy.

"Regarding your mother," Eric says. " _No,_ she wasn't crazy. She had her demons . . . and I will explain more about that when you're older, if you still wish to know, but she wasn't crazy."

Him offering to tell me more, at some point, is smart of him, because it makes me believe he's probably being honest about what he's already told me. Then again, the fact that I'm analyzing him saying this proves that I think it might be a tactic, and if it's a tactic, then it might be a lie, and . . .

_Stop. Your mind works too much._

"Do psychics go mad a lot?" I ask. Again. I think my voice sounds okay. Steady, strong. Not that it matters, because Eric can feel how I'm feeling. And he can hear my heart pounding.

He's slow with his answer. I can see him arranging and rearranging his words. "There is a prevalent myth," he finally begins, "that psychics are more prone than most to mental illness – A  _myth_ ," he repeats as my shoulders go rigid, as my eyes snap shut. "One for which I have never seen convincing evidence. Look at me, dear . . . Thank you. Now listen. Do you know what sensationalism is?"

"Not really."

"It's when an event, or a series of events, or a phenomenon is exaggerated or excessively discussed until it seems more significant than it is. The story captures the public interest, for one reason or another, and gets an undeserved amount of attention, and, sometimes, an undeserved amount of credence. In the case of psychics  _going mad,_ as you put it . . . If a powerful psychic  _happens_ to lose his or her mind – as does some small percentage of every group – he or she is typically better equipped than most to do so with a bang. Now what does that make you think of?"

"The Great Chicago Fire," I whisper, almost unwillingly.

"Exactly. That is a particularly notable example, one that – for lack of a better term – fanned the flames of this false belief about psychics and insanity. But Annika, if two or three people of a certain type burn down a city, or do something equally as dramatic, rumors are going to spread. Even amongst those who should know better. It's hard to resist an idea when it becomes popular. But this one a misconception, Annika. Nothing more."

I move my tongue around, swallow, lick my lips. "But Godric and Edgington are both really old, and they said –"

"I don't care what they said, not about this. I'm really old, too, and – as I've told you before – I've done my research on psychics. I could probably teach a university course on the topic. As a matter of fact, that's my retirement plan."

I press my lips together to kill the smile that tried to jump onto them, because it's not the time to smile, even if Eric wants it to be.

Not . . . not yet.

"Annika, think about it: From everything you know about me, do you believe I would have invested so much time and money in a child – one I intend to make my  _progeny_  – if I thought I had reason to doubt her long-term sanity?"

". . . No . . ."

"No. I'm far too good at business and self-preservation for such recklessness. So please, little one, put these fears to bed. You are  _not_  going to go mad." Eric takes my free shoulder with his free hand and drops his head so we're eye-to-eye. And his eyes, ice-blue, aren't so icy right now. Not at all. "And if you truly can't get the idea out of your head, then know this: Even if you  _did_ , in a bizarre and unforeseen twist of events, suffer some sort of break with reality. . .I would bring you back. I would find a way, I would make you well again, because you are mine. Right now, my human; one day, my progeny." He traces a finger down my cheek. "And always my Annika."

**. . . . .**

**IX.**

Eric's hands slip from me as he leans back, and I blink several times. "Now, then," he says pleasantly, popping his door open. "Be a dear and fetch your DVD player, won't you?"

He vanishes and reappears to my right, opening my door before his has even closed. I cough a little, unbuckle my seatbelt, and climb from the car. The cool air settles on my skin. I got hot without realizing. "A lot of my DVDs are educational, you know."

"So are a lot of your books."

Eric leads the way to the employee entrance. The  _BURN IN HELL_  graffiti looks less mean up close like this – it's only shapes.

"I did like her," Eric says.

"What?"

"Your mother. I liked her. It saddened me when she died – or, rather, when I heard of it."

"How much older do I have to be before you'll tell me more about her?"

"Not too much older, I think. Just be patient."

"Will you tell me about  _your_  mother?"

Does he stiffen, or do I imagine it? Either way, he rests his hand on my head – which means he's not angry – and says, "Sometime, perhaps."

And I, of course, don't press. Believe me, I want to know about Eric's mother. I want to know about his whole family, almost as much as I want to know about mine. But Eric has gone so long without talking about his family. Even to  _Pam_. His family, they're stored away, I think, in one of the soft parts of Eric – the few, well-hidden soft parts – and I won't try to pry them out. I wouldn't even if I thought it would work. I wouldn't do that to Eric.

Anyway, Eric said  _Sometime._  That means there's hope. That means there's a  _great deal_  of hope, in fact – infinite hope. Because Eric and I will have infinite sometimes.

As he's opening the door, I feel a space inside of me go empty. It's as if my body is a shelf packed with books, and someone slipped one out, and now there's a little gap, a little empty space . . . I've never felt anything like this before, and I touch my chest and look up to say something to Eric only to find him staring at the ground, a blank expression on his face. No. Not a blank expression. A  _walled off_  expression. Like Eric saw an attack coming and threw up a defense.

But I know him, and I can still see past the wall to something I don't like.

"Eric? What is it?"

He glances at me, opens his mouth, closes it and shakes his head. "Nothing. I thought . . . It doesn't matter. Come." He gestures at the doorway, and I walk through it, a little slowly. I'm considering whether it's worth it – whether it's smart – to mention the strange little-empty-space feeling just as the club wraps around me like a favorite blanket, or Eric's leather jacket when he lets me wear it. I almost stop walking. I don't, but I close my eyes and feel the warmth, because the club  _feels that way_ again. Warm. Safe.

And after the metal door clangs closed behind Eric, he smooths my hair and walks in-step with me down the hall, so I don't mention that strange feeling, nor do I mention his walled off look outside. Because this is a good moment. And strange and walled-off things have no place in good moments.

No more worrying tonight. I lean against Eric, even though it's unlike me, and he puts his arm around me, even though it's unlike him.

Those actions, though – they really aren't unlike us. We don't do them often, but I don't think that has to mean they're unlike us.

**. . . . .**

**X.**

Three nights later, Sookie's boss calls the club looking for her. And this is how Eric learns she's gone missing.

It's how I learn, too, I suppose, by extension. Technically, however, I learn by Eric entering my room without knocking – which hasn't happened in years – and telling me the news and telling me to get my jacket because we're going to Bon Temps,  _now._ And as he is doing this, saying these things, I can't help but notice his expression. It's walled off. Like he saw an attack coming and threw up a defense. And the attack has just reached him. And it's more than he expected.

I tie my shoes with shaking hands, hating Eric's expression, hating the strain I hear in his voice, and hating – oh,  _hating_ – that I can't block from my mind an image of a shelf packed with books, one of which someone has slipped out, leaving a little gap. A little empty space.

**End of Part Two**

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**A.N.** : "Annika: Part Three" is now up. Thank you all. I hope you enjoyed Part Two as much as I did.


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